Pain and expression whenever ink splatters,
I can feel the forked serpents in my belly
twisting and tendrilling into one.
In the air slowly seeping,
as black smoke from the
smouldering remains
of all the paper-thin trees
I killed with my handwritten poetry.
If I open my mouth to speak,
forked tongues will fly out
to kiss the descending flames
upon graveyard plains of doomed foliage.
On that fateful night from the bonfire,
monsters sprung free.

Centuries stretch into decades
Decades crumble to years
Years dilute to months
Months spoil to weeks
Weeks transform to days
Days pass through hours
Hours scramble to minutes
Mintues fall onto seconds

And it goes and goes
With a logramthic speed
While I stand still
To contort some truth:

Man made measurments meticulously made
May mark mere moments
But
With words witheld within
Wallowing waves wash white, "whys?"
Away.

And...

I speak in riddles as I should
When faced with nothing
But left with the word "could?"

Could of? Of course. Could I? Yes.
I could do anything, definitely
But no I would never
It is a hopless endeavor

And death ushers who it will
And brings their heart to a still
As we all look to how old
To comfort us
From death's hold

For his grip is unrelenting, arbitary, overreaching and perpetual

Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it.

The words that you want to be said
are never the ones you hear, you change
yourself so far you forget who
you once were. You try and please
everyone yet their expectations are
always too high. You aren't ever good enough.