I sit down at my desk,
Staring blankly at the sheet in front of me.

Pure white,
a fresh start.

The pen in my hand twirls gracefully,

Not a word written on the paper.
My ideas were foolish, after all.

Until the pen moved on it’s own.

Long, flowing lines graced the page,
grazing the edges,
but not spilled at all.

The pen halted for only a minute,
as I admire the beautiful world it’s created.

But the pen does not stop, nor does it have mercy.

Dots and lines
Strokes of memory
Brushing it’s tortuous path

The ink held no mercy, and in mercy’s place came agony
the agony tying the strings of ink together until it became a messy puddle
even after all space was filled.
The pen swung
back
and forth
tearing at the paper
My  perfect  world  a   mess    of ink
    and   paper    
and             guilt

Lies are beautiful,
With their assortment of colors,
Ranging from a crystalline white
To a dried blood brown-black.
From purity, for saving someone
from the pain of the truth,
to lies of pure fun,
that stains the ground we walk on.

And so I coat myself in black and blood red,
Making lies and creating fun,
Only for myself.
Or at least that’s what I’d like to think.
The pure black seems to almost
                   flow
              like a river
     out through my lips
and to everyone around me.
It’s toxic, bringing pain like flesh being
torn.
I love it.
I crave every agonizing minute
of lies that spew and grow and
writhe like a growing parasite.
A beautiful parasite of shining
black
and luxurious oily blue.

It can’t be helped to love such
mesmerizing
colors.
So here I spill
and paint the world in my ink.
The ink of lies,
And the paper the truth.
Of course, everyone wants
to fill said paper
with color.

So we spill inky lies to the ground
to create a world worth living in.
A wonderland of gorgeous, asymmetric chaos.
Lies are truly beautiful, if you see the creativity
behind the lie.