What lurks inside this book of secrets?
A juicy tale waiting to be exposed?
A lie that finds justice?
A simple story with a complex ending?
A poem with a theme to which no one comprehends?

No one, except the narrator behind the first person speaker,
The Creator,
The mastermind behind all that follows,
Me...him...or her...who knows?
A book which holds the mysteries of my deepest ink,
A notepad with my scribbles and scrabbles written with a blank pen,
Key words and phrases that could be polar opposite of what is actuality,
Processed under a microscope of human mind and matter,

Welcome to my world,
My realm,
Where I make the rules and you play actor to attempt the follow,
A curiousity that will always force a pondering upon your solidified wonders,
A future of revealing knowledge,
A pocket watch spinning in opposite directions,

My words cannot be learned or taught,
They play with the mind and bombard every intricate thought bubble,
Digging deeper to find meaning in the mine of a premeditated stanza,

Is it a happy ending?
Is it a truent fib?
Is it a creative mixture of stories and lines?
Or would you call it a poem?
That is the bone destined to be buried indefinitely, waiting for the dog,

I chizel in this binded slate to uncover the underground,
I believe these silent dialogues are for you, to drive you crazy to unravel,
The anticipation of tearing off the wrapper to discover the gift,
It is brain boggling,
Thoughts twisting like twine around the neck,
This containment is insanity,

So you think you know my words, do you?
You can't see the dimensions existing in this plane,
This ink, this graphite, this wonder,
These perplexing strands of ideas mean nothing to you, but they feed,
I think for thought and write to feel right,
I make to believe and believe to make,

This notebook is red,
A color blended with blood and pain,
The color that stains forever,
A color with such anger to its personality,
I'm ill-tempered by the ignorant; the ignorance,
A few lines remaining and still so much left to fight for,
A never ending dotted line that trails a crescendo for all of eternity,

This poem lives for the stranger whom uncovers the mystery; a Hardy Boy,
The one whom I undoubtedly love,
The one whom comprehends my inner struggle and becomes ally to my thoughts,
She would be my dictionary,
I would be her words,
She is my pages,
I am her binding,

The reason these ideas grow from this stem through the flow of my arm,
Along my fingers,
Into my utensil,
And onto the absent surface,
The dull end of this pencil knows all,
Together, we write this novel of uncertainty,
Bleed my thoughts,
But you still will not reveal the master plan behind my words,
For this color stains and ruptures the soul,

I am crazy,
Insane in the brain,
******,
But my desires?
Poetic,
Ingenious,
Romantic,
Realistically bleeding,
As the stranger, you narrow your focus on this lightbulb like a fly on the wall,
Explore the mind,
Find what is so secretly kept safe,
But remember,
My thoughts...
They stain.

Open my notebook
Choose a blank page
Hold my pen in your hand
Connect it with your heart
And write so you can feel
How much I love poetry.

Thank you for checking all of my boxes over and over again until holes wore in the pages of my notebook.

The notebook beneath my hands
holds all my secrets
My fears and my hopes
My dreams and my nightmares
My pride and my shame

The pen between my fingers
bleeds ink onto the pages
My thoughts flow through it
My emotions flood through it
My feelings shoot through it

The pages enclosed in it
are tattooed with the years
My childhood marked on them
My youth etched on them
My adolescence carved on them

This notebook is filled
with things that make me
My history
My present
My life

And she poured her pain out
in a red notebook.
Because that was the only way
she could bleed.

I wish I could
make a bouquet
out of words
left unused

Mama always said
not to waste food
well
why not words:

the unit circle
The Boy with
// W47 “The Boy //

she traced her fingertips,
along the frosted window;
soft gasps danced between mouths.

supple lips brush, sweep,
tenderness is exchanged;
in laps, for innocence in waves.

sheeps clothing, stiffined;
the frost embedded in its weaving.
bodies manifesting steam,
as alchemists.

mn.