Here is where we meet again. Where dead poets conjure and the living visit while they sleep.
Here is from where my fingers tell tales ,as they nibble my keyboard and the scrubbling papers
Here I paint with floating drops of ink, as they bleed from wounds of my innocent once young-self.
Here comes my raging anger and my weeping fears, here I am released from my aching thoughts, for they are allowed to possess the spectral bodies of my dreams.
How shadows call me by name and silver demons ask me to dance.
How prancing fairies come to caress my cheeks. As life is breathed into them by my stuttered words.
The writer comes out of me to share his talent. Nonetheless, I refuse to call this gift as such.
It is a message from a world lurking below, and soaring above my riveted soul.
By livid hopelessness screaming in simmering waters. Hundreds of fathoms below in molten steel this gray world has cast me in
In this world, I refuse to sing praise to the odorless, and empty clamor.
Here I welcome the nonsensical as poetry. In this theater we portray the sick and the mad.
Here is where all truth is smiled upon. Here is where I had my first name.
Here we greet all that is frowned upon. I am the fresh plaster walls that watch the travesty of this world, yet silently wishes to conceal its echoing horrors with its embrace.
If light could warm the ice mountains of my soul, then my golden city could be witnessed again.
I am a soul. And nothing more.
(Hey guys, it is 2 o’clock in the morning, couldn’t sleep on this, had to get it out, call it nonsense, or call it art, I don’t care)