A lingering melody from a metallic vibrating needle machine,
sings in my eardrums.
Thoughts become art,
melted in Ink.
Descending into my epidermis.
As pain travels and escapes through my body.
My face molds and breaks into minuscule painful multiple aches of gestures within every ardent minute.
As the artist cuts into the brain of fiction.
Dipping his metallic paint brush machine into it's blood.
And carving aesthetic realism into his human canvas.

Why is it that at the end of the road.
Is where we tend to find what we're longing for ?

Every now and then I lay awake at night.
Staring out my window as the moonlight covers me in bedsheets made of allusions piercing through my half-shut curtains.
Reminding me to pray, even though there's no gods to pray too.
Faith escapes through my finger tips and I've learned so graciously to live being lost.
I've learned to unconditionally love the angst in my veins and embrace the pessimist that I am.

These walls are paper thin.
I can hear faint arguments,
resemble politics.
Fathers a democrat, & mothers a republican.
Voices get lost in the distance of my mind.
I picked up a pen,
walked up to my father, cut open his stomach, & wrote obstinate on his liver. Then I walked towards my mother, slit open her chest,  & wrote sadness on her tacit heart.
I proceeded into my little sisters room, carefully removed her ears, & wrote Innocence across her tiny eye lids.
Midway distance between my room &
the front door to the outside world.
I got lost again, roaming in my head for the third time that day.
Found my way unto my bed.
I layed down to closed my eyes and woke up to a new day.
Yet the same sounds again.

I wrote merit words like "love, regret, hate, sorry"
Then it turned to short run-on sentences like" forgive me, I say sorry more than I mean it, I ******* hate you, "on black & blue balloons. I tied them to your limbs to keep you balanced.
But one day I came back to cut the strings and as I they flew through a sea like sky.
I realized I can't take them back now.