I write under some small delusion,

that you would want to see

me, bare my soul and that my soul

is full of colour and wonder;

that I could some how venerate your being

with Some spark of creativity

magnified  in personification to a whole new status of being.

And I wrap myself up in this warm delusion.

It helps me sleep at night,

I feel better about the world,

even a little less lonely,

at first...

Because then you're driven

by some constant compulsion

to draw out the emotions.

You plot and plan words

and the schematics of affectations.

The tiniest hopes spur you on,

through endless trials and drafts of possible perfection

not yet in words perfected.

You stretch your minds limits

you seek new boundaries of thought.

You while away hours forming possibilities

based on a line that becomes the hook.

You become the friend of empathy.

Seeking to somehow bring a voice to others pain.

All the while selfish and conceded

it is merely a means to an end.

The is no torture greater than this discipline of arts

with such limited tools to drive a wedge of emotion

through the eyes and drive to affect the mind

to cause a heart response that reaches the soul...

I please you.

This is my delusion

that sparks the wars of many wordss.

Fighting for the chance to venerate me.