A short story of who I am
A drastic change thanks to time
A young lass with angels learning to dance
But the devils thought it's better to rhyme
Got locked in a box of words
Knowing letters as the only swords
With it fighting kings and lords
No running, only training voice chords

Words as loud as explosions
Passion hot as fire
Wasting paper after paper
Ink never ending, heart never tires
For the devils control her mind
And angels control her brain
Both fighting to win the war
And the young lass is trying to stay sane

Actions over words
What are words without fire
Fire that moves and burns the world
Licking the flames of your tragedies
And taking you towards a new forest
Where the pasts have burned
Touch the fertile ground of your new mind
Promote yourself from writer to soldier
Don't you dare take your time
Your next words would be your last
Your next move could be the first of firsts
The builder
The fighter
The mightier
The worthier
Everyone knows that glory is in being alive
The only thing more alive that words
Is your body moving to fulfill the words

Ironic isnt it?

how a writer could say 'words can only mean so much.'

As a writer you understand what words could truly mean.

the passion,

the sadness,

anger,

joy,

love.

And yet so easily could a writer lie.

Think about it though, isnt it so perfect?

Creating a story out of real life?

And a good writer could really cover their tracks

their lies would be so drawn out and intricate, there's no way they just made it up...

Right?

Haze.

Cloud formation
9 degrees from location
I can’t see the formation
Of fear adopting me from temptation

It wasn’t honor or pride
It’s fear of what consequence resides
The naked plush of a lustful rush
In the trippy black out
emphasized by my friend’s paintbrush

I’ve never thought fantasy could be escalated
seems I’ve hit a milestone
I’ve shot up a dragon ride home
Now I’m excited by warmth and fascinated by combs
I’ve never wandered the medieval before
That’s why I stuck to game of thrones

My minds been freed
My body, imprisoned
It can’t be explained but it’s nothing depicted in illustrated predictions of purple, red and off key balance as seen in pulp fiction

They say drug use is escapism
Acid burnt down the bars of social anxiety disorders and confines of 3rd dimensional prisms
Left bare dialectical materialism
Molly taught me how to make friends
While your sobriety made you prone to solipsism

This was always what I’d imagined it to be
When I close my eyes and see
For a while I had looked over the wall than walk through the gate
Always drew the solution with stick to sand but never went into the maze
Always window shopped the shoes
But never tried them on to walked the way
Perhaps it’s a common laymen’s phrase
That drugs are a paradise lost in the haze.