And at the point you realize the only color in my language is the color of ink on the page, you might grow slightly sick from being disillusioned
My imagery is a magnificent, lurid, and tragic oil spill of vapid, romantic sentiments begging to go unchecked
My description of some summery symmetry in a budding sunflower, succulent or sage is writ large a paradox of emotion
Such a dizzying lack of identity… yet my words flow.
My highest hopes are that they make any reader dissociate.
Indeed. A dizzying identity: I cannot be both a writer and thinker.
For, as long as I can evade meaning and hide beneath the vaguest hyperboles, I will have unending words and poetries.
…This poem—this… everything- is me wanting my hand to twitch chaotically while I write.
And the errant illustration produced from this would be my proudest work
After building a legacy of fields of parchment sewn with seeds of inspired angst, I’ve evolved
Thereafter, I am a mighty sword carving nothings into a beaten, dead horse
Thereafter, I am a devil’s keeper
Thereafter, I am the vaguest hyperbole
Thereafter, I am unthinking