You look at life with rose tinted glasses.
Everything
Is a coincidence
or a stroke of luck
or fate
Nothing is planned.
Everything is up to chance
Everything is possible
Nothing is what you want it to be
Responsibility is scary and exhausting
Recklessness is exciting and exhilirating
You are stuck with these glasses
Unable to return them
They are imprinted on your skin
They own your scent and your essence
They become
you.

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.