Jan 2021
Words pour from my heart
Staining the page crimson
Shaking hand spatters ink
Pens azure life-blood leaking
Rhythmic refuge reverie
Beatboxed spittle
Tears accompany
Washing ink-blood
Into drumstick-pen dents
Petite purple puddles
Small seas of sadness
Storm-tossed soul
A sailor searching
Three-ring horizons
For spiral-bound cyclones
Staining the page crimson
Shaking hand spatters ink
Pens azure life-blood leaking
Rhythmic refuge reverie
Beatboxed spittle
Tears accompany
Washing ink-blood
Into drumstick-pen dents
Petite purple puddles
Small seas of sadness
Storm-tossed soul
A sailor searching
Three-ring horizons
For spiral-bound cyclones
© 01/25/21 Jason R. Michie All Rights Reserved
Writing, like music, is a refuge to me. Writing is the only means I posses of giving physical form to the constant storm inside me. The act of translation from soul/heart/mind to written word can heal and destroy. Indeed, one might think one must be destroyed in order to be created anew. Scars support this theory.
Writing, like music, is a refuge to me. Writing is the only means I posses of giving physical form to the constant storm inside me. The act of translation from soul/heart/mind to written word can heal and destroy. Indeed, one might think one must be destroyed in order to be created anew. Scars support this theory.
