Artemis of lover’s vein, so crippled the stories written; time and time just a metaphor re-purposed for one’s own denial and trivial demeanor in life’s endless run around of circus portrayals and brothel ideals. So heartily heartless in that which we demand to propose to intellect to understand to hit upon the paper in smeared ink blots and crayon drawings. Plump words in our mind fleeting in the gleam of true existence of a higher plane, a destiny in which we consume upon our literal madness and shrinking violets crosses that bodies nail upon in bloodstained hope of succumbing to all knowing, awe inspiring blood red. Damp hampering splashed towards the patent white pinafore, the dirt of the world that stains the novel ideas and written thought with beauty of realism in abstracted terms and meanings, so lightly pressed against the bloodstone of opposition that leaves the man dying in the street; hardened to the gentle caress of a whisper or a stanza proposed in idolization. Finding nothing to covet, nothing to learn from but crumpled up newspapers, the literature of truth and lies concocted into the comforters of the all too common plight of the hungered streets forgotten in the stereotypes of which writers lay down with and bare heat. Heartless in the pursuit to butcher the human word into fillet mignon among the platter of the readers gazing eyes, bewitching the pen to dance through the veined paper and graffiti it’s existence with your own dictation. So simply, silly, we fuddle that into being that which without our constant prodding would have stayed securely locked away in the middle of obscurity in where it most of the time should have rested untouched until the last of the words to be uttered were lost to man. But, instead we breathe the thoughts into being to be cast away upon the silver slated cusp of forgotten and leave it to die with our dreams thrown onto last night’s supper and the past due late notice. We struggle to resign it from our heads that what was uttered in paper and ink was not perfection and in truth, nothing more than just endless ramblings falling upon deaf ears and scratched out of the eyes of the beholder.

Little pins eating away at the brain, losing the touch to herald the misery and enchant the simplest of wondered facts into any syllable. The world, the word, a word, a fog aghast with memories of times in which inspiration led you through the trees and down the yellow brick road and every minute was a million stories, everyday a novel and the author, the lion roared with mane flying to salute the endeavors of heartache and insanity you despise, hate, cherish and love. The emotions felt in the dreary nights you characters spend in reflection and thus cut away the vein of life which feeds you by making everything into imaginations grindings; always waiting for the other shoe to drop and the story to find tragedy and the wastebasket and your heart to die on the blocks of ice. Because nothing is ever good enough……….NOTHING…………the midas touch, wine to water, crap on your face and mumbled littering savaging your soul into pieces baring the scars and left silent……SILENT……..your heart never makes it to the finish line and your soul never imprints that in which your tears bled forth. An endless dance between divine talent reckoning, realizing,reborn and fog iced over shit in the noggin settling to simply throw in the towel and strive another day for something the typewriter can hear and pound a melody of forgotten prose, untouched and unread. Just written, unwritten, striped through in bloody misery of inked disbelief, yet, all too knowing of the end before the sparrow sat and spun the tune to begin.