The ink I use to write these words lingers upon my fingers-
the stain from this pen reminds me of the words I printed,
printed onto a page like they were my last will and testament
like every last word is breeching a secret code-
I love discovery.
The way words can wrap around lips
and be partnered with indifference and passion.
The way you can turn something so destructive into an art form-
every piece of beauty can fall in-between these lines.
These are permanent, in the same way as the ink that leaves my pen
and I hope for sin again-
for some kind of solitude that will help me write better.
But I realized I don't need tragedy to fuel my poetry
I can become inspired by the way the sun kisses the ground
and remembers to do so again every single morning-
how the world is so small but it still rotates
like it has a point to prove to the sun it can still manage.
I live for the early mornings-
the dew filled grass and the damp sock sunrises.
I live for the conversation of life-
experiencing everything through my wake
and being able to feel just enough to continue my day
happiness is an art form-
it's never just paint brush and stroke
never just words on a page
it is continuous-
late night rooftop star gazes
and becoming one with yourself again.
This world can ruin you
only to help rebuild you into a better model.
I laugh until my eyes are no longer dry-
I make a point to lend these hands to anyone
who's ever been at a disadvantage.
I breech my security to those around me
so they experience a sense of solitude in similarity-
compassion in comparison, to each it's own
the kind I never really received.
So they can know they're not alone
but realize their experiences are their own.
I want to grow with the world
find myself in the earth's crust
and build myself a fossil out of lost time.
Nothing is ever lost-
some things are only meant to stay so long
until someone finds salvation in what you lost-
nothing is ever really yours.
That's the beauty of this world.
As the ink stains my fingers
I realize if I shower enough it will disappear
and if I say these words too much
they won't mean so much
so I take pride in discretion-
I let the ambiance speak for itself
and let the obsolescence of life take course.
Nothing is ever planned
but everything is apart of the plan.
As I am driving at midnight-
windows rolled down and rain pouring upon my arm
I realize this is what freedom feels like-
each raindrop touches my skin
and reminds me of what it means to be alive.
We must feel things, even the bad-
because if we didn't
life would be so ******* boring.