sometimes i wish to strike the earth
like those super-heroes
flying superficially above the cities
protecting man-made hollow halls of brick and metal.
i'd crack it right open
make my way to the heart
kiss the inner-core better
and sew it back together with patches.

*problem solved.

We are taught to write neatly
but how can I deny what you write so deeply?
With your scruff and ease,
that no one else sees
but me.
I feel honoured to decipher
what's laid before me.
A survivor
a desire
a provider
a divider
a whirlwind of fiction
all balanced in the depiction
your ink puts to pages
and pages of this contagious
frenzy we call "writing"
and now I'm squirming and writhing
in the itch to just
pick up a pen
and not care about handwriting.

she said thats she's surprised I haven't
run away yet.

but the real question is:
where would I go?

I have no one,
I can't even have my bestfriend.

I should just go far, far away.

Anybody feel like helping?