You arrangers of thoughts and visions.
Sharing that most personal light that filters into your lens.
Opinions on sunsets, and of Autumns,
and attempting resurrections of days gone by.
A childhood Holiday, a skipped Summer stone.
A first heartache,
or a loved one’s soul ascending.
Perfectly honest glimpses into your most precious moments.

How do you do it?
How do you make me feel like a peeping Tom as if I had stumbled upon your most private files,
your family photo albums, your **** stash?
Like intercepting a note passed under a schoolhouse desk to Dorothy, ....what's her name.
Or that little red book in you Sister's night stand.
Her diary under lock and key?
No.
No, not diaries.
The visions you throw up are more than diaries.
They are ancient words that have longed to be spoken.
The thoughts of a thousand souls, you so bravely have loosed.
But you have to do this don't you?
You are so beautifully addicted.
From time to time you have to purge.
You have to stick your fingers into the throat of your mundane day jobs,
or lifeless relationships,
or awkward adolescence,
and for a moment,
for me,
throw up.

How is it that it stirs me to do the same?
I must crave that same drug as you.
To tap that vein and bleed...
But until then I will read you.
I will wander down your lonely paths,
I will let you in so that I may, for awhile,  
find the tear you wanted me to shed,
find that smile you knew was there, hidden among my layers.
And then, to take a breath and cherish the tattoos you have left behind.
To read you.
To see just what you see.
Is that what it is, this poetry?