So it starts again
Creeping
Crawling
Into my head

Slowly devouring
Any sanity left
Amongst the mush
I dare call a brain

Obsession creeps
Down every inch
Of my lonesome body
From a lonesome heart

It has become me
The parasite inside
And its been there
My entire life

Why does it
Keep me alive

I used a black sharpie to write a love poem on your arm
Hoping the ink would sink into depths causing little to no harm
That the rough words may permeate through your tough skin
And the permanence may prove that forever starts from within
That the black is dark enough to hide all your scars from being used
And that my words are evidence and proof of my love for you

So let that ink sink as deep as it might
My words peirce your soul without a fight
My sharpie art fill you with awe and an imaginative spark
Be inspired by my loving words and the permanent scar they leave on your heart
You may forget my face, you may forget my name but **never forget where my love made its mark

Embracing the power of thoughts,
Believing in the power of dreams,
Having ink as a way of release,
Yearning to put all feelings on paper,
Getting satisfaction from your written words,
And excited by new words.
Writing it all without fear of being "judged",
Writing because you can,
Writing because you should,
Writing because you must.

I was a mythical creature once.

I lived in a small picturesque town
next to a little hole of blue water.

I sang the sweetest songs.

Mortal man never heard the like before.
They wandered by to listen very often.

They say my feathers fairly sparkled
and if the sun lived closer he might outshine me.

There was darkness that the feathers covered.
No one could tell what destruction lurked beneath.

But I lived to sing that song.
Morning, noon and night. I put my heart in it.
I never faltered, but once

and I looked in the placid lake to see my own reflection.
The monster that looked back at me grinned
at my surprise.
The darkness laughed out loud.

And I did nothing but climb that tall live oak.
As close as I could get to the sun
and I built my nest with twigs.

I lined it with bits of color, silken scraps
to echo my plumage.
And I lined it with sweet-smelling spices
cinnamon and lavender and myrrh.

And then I sang my best last song
'til the suns rays came too, too close.

I kept singing til my last breath was ash
until the day that I will begin again.

leading might they be.
Cause I simply don’t experience things
in the limited time of what we call moments.

The same way I dislike fireworks,
nights not followed by days and days not followed by nights;
the same way I dislike non gravitational wonders  

I am not the one diverting
I am the one accepting the role of sequence
and all its consequences.

Still given it all,
I don’t understand,
how I ignored the non sequence,
how I let it wonder somewhere without the where,
just because I couldn’t not contradict myself
and accept
the entropy in your expression

Life's not laundry.
Don't separate
The colours
From the whites.