The palette, that on, i draw stories.
Some of there.
Some of now.
Mostly tales of then.
Belong to all who feel and smear
there hearts upon the blank.

That, what's penned.
Is much the tell, and tale,
Of what we wish to be.
Why and now, do we write
of anger hope and love?

Is it respite from worlds of ours,
and only truth there is.

That this be this, just only this.
And that it cause us fright?

The mirror of within.

With all of this, we claim despair,
object and yet we write.


Of how we think the world should be.
Or what to change within.

Should we be the
abject hate?
Avarice and sin.


But with every line,
the rage is whittled down.
The drumming of the keyboard.
and paralleled white sound.
That on this page now does exist,

A pure and distilled soul.

So less than gray
and more than black

and
no
longer just a hole.