What's on my mind? It's hard to pin myself to paper, to pen myself to paper, in a forced manner, bound by fetters, but remember later, the resistance is better, the nurturing of my underside, written in fine lines, they are not wasted time. They are lifelines.
                     The letters are lifelines. The essence of my devotion. Moving in motion. Like the color of my pen, matches the color of the ocean, and the scribbles on the paper match the rhythm and the notion. I understand, it's understood, It's unavoidable but I'd avoid it when i could, escape it. Break loose. Unchain myself. free to wallow in the more comfortable chains i smelt.

I am afraid
that we can't coexist.
For I am a writer
and you an actress,
and the one thing between us
is quite simply this:
The two, dear,
just don't mix

Now, a writer is one
who likes to make stories,
creates onsets and ends,
crafts his dramas from worries.
He sees the whole world
connected by string;
he knows that one simple pluck
could change everything.

Some call it 'fate,'
and it's called 'life' by a lot
but amongst us creators
it is always called Plot.
Every itch has a reason,
each whisper a whim,
within any characters past
lies a reason to win.

But the actor can only see
from their own point of view.
They must master their character;
how they think and what they'd do.
They expend all their energy
trying to be someone else
while the writer's too busy
trying to figure out himself.

It feels like a nose print on my glasses.
First, of course, my thoughts turn to you
And I think about how we got here.
All the good and not-so-good moments.
Sometimes I'm in a hurry and simply wipe away the smudge.
Sometime I let it sit.
Sometimes I like it there as a constant reminder
Of where we are at.
Where I am at.
In this place of love and honesty
And fear and crushing, suffocating hurt.

I wish I could wipe the feelings away
Like you nose print on my glasses.
But, then again, there will be more tomorrow.

As she spews contortion
from her violin chest
The sounds of C minor
began to build a nest
&
As he sifts through propaganda
of bamboo and blast beats
The floor begins to take him
for he hasn't slept in weeks

---

Their thoughts cascade like fire
around the sounds of Show Your Bones
And kerosine licks her wounds
as they spit it up upon old homes
They strike their fondest matches
and watch the wooden parts ungrow
And then they place them in each others mouth
Where no one else will ever go

She dances with rhythm amongst the chaos
while she weaves a tail of smoke
And the beauty caught in her third eye
is the only thing that's broke
His gaze is focused on only one thing
the pittered pattern of her percussion feet
As he finds warmth by the molten lava houses
while standing at the center of the street

Their goal was finely furnished
they burnt a hole right through their childhood
One that would scar their mother earth
who had forgotten how to feel this good
Their past was made of synapses
that could only be found up in their head
And when they really thought about it
they found that 'now' is all that's left

---

As she choreographed a drum line
with the snare found in her sole
The days, the months, the years: her life
began to take their toll
&
As his desk sits around him
he pens a mystery
Of flames and lust: of destruction
he can finally fall asleep

I feel sideways
Like I’m melting on the page in
Horizontal lines
That fluctuate to match the edges of my mind
As it attacks itself in subtle ways
That are easily mistakable and even harder to trace
I feel sideways
Like the smile on my face
With it’s crooked teeth and smirked edges
All fakes
Are falling right here on the page
I feel  sideways

Tryin to figure out what’s captivating me
What captivating means
Tryin to figure out
What scintillating
How senses feel to seem
Tryin to figure out
What’s enchanting
Captured
Captivating me

Brand it,
Bandit.
Livin' the dream,
curse.

Sulking
in the silence
of your sorrows.

Neck deep
in worry waves.
&
I'm drowning, in the
shallow waters of my own.