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My words
like air to once life,
the pen caresses the blank paper,
creating forms of art,
sentimental feelings,
real thoughts
come from the once traffic roads of the mind,
the rage full feelings,
wanting to be calm
with a slice and dripping
of the color of wine,
sitting calmly and search for a solution,
form to communicate
with all that tend to feel his pain,
can easily describe the scars and bruises,
for I,
in my time have been decapitated,
no arms, nor legs,
yet a paper with a shinny sharp rusty pen,
no ink so I fall face first,
point going through my eyes,
cutting my mind I die
for a second,
minute, maybe hours,
a picture,
as a firemans hose,
the blood splatters and creates pictures,
I have now recall my poetry,
my work my art,
my segments of life,
so I rest for another day
