Artists are always trying to configure the landscape with invisible ink. So, it seems. The kind you can't see at first (a thought, a wish, a desire)  and with an incredible thirst for life. Maybe survival may be because they're afraid, maybe afraid to be swallowed up by some demonic invisible force. No filter to tune out all the little things you see.  You're fed up with all the analysis. You need to purge. Uh- such an ugly word. Well, I guess that’s one way to put it. Try purify, justify, express, clean up, cleanse. remove, sanitize, vent, erase. On and on.  Morph it, whatever it may be, into some form of art. Some of it splatters, some of it matters, some of it doesn’t.  Not art for art's sake. Too difficult. Too contrived. Too much work, but mostly the art of necessity. A flow or a push, whatever the case may be. An inexorable need, a hunger, a vacuous perpetual emptiness that cries out for needing.  The expression of something lacking in me. Oh, poor, poor pitiful me.  Control was never the issue. No issues were ever released before they're time.

Such a need to get in touch with my possessive adjectives or am I just possessive. So how does this relate to you? Everything does but you like me. I could leave it there. I won't. You like me don't like some parts of you. Yes, that's it.

Try it on for a fit.

Does it fit?
It should fit because I feel it fits and then moments come.

They're excruciating.

They’re despairing

They’re painful.

They hurt.

They drive me to my knees.

I think I'm possessed.

I hide.

I hide behind my invisible ink, with you.

Yet I am never alone.
I know you're not there but really does it matter.
You always have something to do, somewhere to be and then something else to do, to be, to do, to be, inexorably. Why do I use this word continuously?
You have turned your moments of reverie into a painting, a song, a poem, a dialogue, a whatever and ever. Never and never to just let it be. I scream but no one hears.

Can anyone tell me why I wrote this terrible scenario?
I thought I was the authorship of me, of my life, my script.
Can anyone tell me why I can’t write you back into my life?
Someone has sabotaged my authorship.
Not to sound paranoid, but I think negative entities have taken up residence in me.
I have cast them out invisibly with prayer and intention, but if nothing changes, I’ll know it was me.
I’ll post this now just to see if anyone can relate.
I don’t want to be all alone - with a poem I can’t write.
I don’t want to be all alone with just me.
I miss my doggy.
She loved me unconditionally.