On such days black paint is all I need.
No shading reaches my palette.
No fine detail or delicate strokes of brush.
No intricate patterns of light to master.
No shapes to angle just correctly and in proportion.
No tones to give expression or perception.
Canvas of any size from white to black.
Imagery catching perfectly the mood.
These words the only weapon left to keep some canvas untainted.

I survived the broken heart just fine.
It was the collateral damage to my mind that killed me.

If someone tells you they are blind... do you test them?
Do you doubt them? Do you disbelieve them or judge them?
Do you deny the Labrador in harness or perhaps the cane in hand?
What dogs and canes must I present for your eyes if I say I am broken? Will you believe me if I have nothing to show in evidence other than my word?
Will you see and believe or would you test me to cross a freeway unaided?
I am broken. I have no dog. I have no cane and the traffic is heavy.
I am blind shouting to the deaf.

Like post-it notes,
upon a yearbooks page.

Hand scrawled summaries,
of the important bits.

Faces, places, names,
happiness and sadness,
loves and passions,
hurts and pain.

Tattered but treasured remnants,
that taught me, that made me.

They fashioned me,
and completed my design.

All duly noted and stored,
and learned for good or ill.

These are my memories,
they are both me and mine.

Are you raised or seated when you have to wipe your ***?
I feel compelled to ask you as there seems no rule of thumb.
Do you use your left hand or do you use the right?
Do you really scrub it or stroke it nice and light?
Do you scrunch the paper or fold it layered flat?
I hope I haven't intruded or offended by asking you all that?


My apologies but sometimes my brain just wont engage neutral gear.

If E=MC squared and I am 9 stone why cant I get up in the morning?

If all things are "relative" why haven't I heard from any of you?

If nothing moves faster than light how does that cold drop of water beat me when I go to the bathroom in the mornings?

Born of mind and heart and folded by the soul,
thus a poets words are forged.
Cast upon the fickle breeze or dispersed by howling gale,
perhaps to find new minds and hearts in which to grow.