My fascination of words come from a deep place…
Shards of broken hopelessness,
Discarded in pieces, through metaphors
Seeking life within the lines of poetry.
Wanting to creep out of my soul,
From my veins through my fingertips…

I write for me.
My words are not for humanity…
There won’t be any prophesies scrawled across cave walls
Only fragments of my being,
Refracted in the images I paint on paper,
Printed in blood ink.

My words are release.
There are no pictographs or,
Phenomenon discoveries,
Veiled in my assortment of letters,
Etched in my broken rib cage of fragility…
Printed only out of desperation.

My fascination with words is contingent...
I put in bulks of fleshy bits of insanity,
And I secrete emotions,
Ravaged by war,
Because for some reason,
Pain is equivalent to beauty.

Sometime my words become selfish.
They bombard my mental cavity,
Asking so much of me,
I have to stop in the middle of the street
And write thoughts down
before I lose them.

My words consume me.
I think differently,
I feel differently.
Every sense is heightened in this state.
I lose myself in the worlds I create.
My words are my only escape.