My skin is a chalkboard yet your nails find their way to resonate sounds through my throat. What was once a clean canvas is now struck by an act of art and crime of pleasure. A chest full of "I love you's"  formed by kisses as rough as barbed wire and bruises carved by means of passion. Black and blue and red and purple, green, yellow; a rainbow of lust. Your hands around my neck is my favorite noose, a chokehold of fingertips I'll never escape the grasp of.

i have always dreamed of writing something about the beauty of nature and earth that would be so meticulously written and elegant that an audience would simply be floored by the sheer pulchritude in words. but i have never found myself so inspired by the snowy covered mountains in the bareness of winter, nor am i stirred by the golden deserts of the south, neither am i provoked by the wafting wheat and grassy grain in the prairies. instead i am inspired by the geographical grandeur of those who walk around myself. i am amazed by the intricately complex valleys and rifts on curves of humans, and the supple folds of their mountains and canyons. yet the truest beauty lies not in the obvious- no it lies in the crevices and nooks of people; the faintest subtle blue rivers that trace their every twist and turn that carry the life in them. it's in the radiant flower like colored bruises and blisters and cheeks in the cold. and in how the footsteps and movement of aging, and within the scrapes and scars that truly tell a tale for all to see. to be shouted for ages, full of sorrow and feats and of struggles but also of laughter and sheer joy that you could not simplify into a verse of a poem. and in the knobby bumps and ridges in their fingers and awkward joints- that when you hold them, they make you rethink how you have never believed in a god

It seems that
arrogance and ego
have a way
of
blowing-up
in our
faces.