a writer writes his writ upon his therapist
becomes a terrorist upon an innocent blank canvas
and breathes deep of deep water
searching aimlessly through the murky abyss
for word choice or some voice that sank it's teeth
into calm waters, sinking calm into the universe
beneath stormy oceans, and coral reefs
and then it is lost forever
or at least
for the quotient of our time strung together
so the writer has to make the world smaller
less corners to hide behind on an island
without defiling a perfect balance between dreams
and silence
the writer risks every random revelry being revealed
inside of a blank pages first time
to quiet the world in their minds
and find calm sealed away in a place you'd rather be
but the longer you stay reality fades to grey
and you only see what could be satisfactory
some day
a writer experiences love like a story, but euphoric in ways
unexplained except by a blank white page.
which becomes a mistrustful mistress
and you begin to miss your healthy distrust
instead of a co-trust between love and the pen and the paper
a writer can feel only through the pen
so if a writer writes on your skin
you'll know they want to see you again
and you to see them