Everyday I bleed on paper,
(It looks prettier that way.)

Here I present to you my blood,
Crimson seeping through sheets,
Spelling out words that stitch themselves into sentences,
That become paragraphs and poems.

I

On a Thursday at the edge of summer and autumn, when constellations studded the sky, I carried a cup of tea into my study. It was a beautiful cup, hand-painted with buds about to burst into flowers.

words

like amorphous chunks of metal

they rest on a shelf in my brain

and beg to be molded

I long to hold them in the

fire of my skull

till they are soft and malleable

When so many things stop and they clatter, up in the jabambaway things hip, hop and shatter. For up in this place a great WHO lurks about For the little who-whoians ask and they pout. For the lorax knows best, so the Lorax puts those who-whoians to the ultimate test!!

I don’t know why,

Maybe it was just a thought.

‘Less it was not to just sit here,

And have my mind rot.

Writing on paper,

With the scratch of pen.

Thinking of nothing,

‘Cept the thoughts of men.

There is a thing that is stronger than yourself,

That is from you; its plan is one of stealth.

White-hot insults out of a mouth are poured,

Never underestimate the power of a word!

Sometimes I just sit there,

waiting to be struck,

with one poetic thought.

Other times I am struck,

with a line to my poem,

and I have nowhere,

to write it down.

Inspiration comes from,

nature and the world.

The pencil soars across the black page

painting imagination, uniqueness

illuminating places concealed in the corner of your mind

bringing eccentric beasts into the fabric of reality

blustering winds rush over once serene, quiet glades

I have problems

and I’ll swap mine with you like trading cards.

Long lovely disorders go over the lips like chocolate

but honey, we’ve been writing about these pits of darkness

long before shrinks slapped name tags on them.

Who dreams?

Who dares to enter such a realm?

Visions, fleeting,

Escaping with the waking flutter,

Living on bated breath

And translucent promises of

A world all your own;

A world anew.

When you dream of becoming a writer,

You get stories embedded in your soul

Ideas of near and far-off lands,

And journeys down rabbit holes.

words fill the pages

the pages fill the void

void an existence

and her head is filled with these words

not knowing their meaning

she writes but the words lose reason

she writes and the words are empty

Pencil joins with paper.

At once, a

pattern of words

begins to flow

and spread

about the page

stories of another world

of creatures

unknown to man

of sports played

on the moon alone