So many spilling thoughts
Injected ink lines
Past voices silently tucked away, carried like an accessory or complimentary aesthetic to feed the feeling of self-connectedness
To nourish a higher being or allude a sense of security and certainty.
A place where your mind speaks with itself; uninterrupted but disturbed.
Unfiltered intentions, with uninhibited powerless action.
where your mind and hand sink into each other, melting together a sauce of silky drops and stolen licks
Words gain and lose meaning as fleeting as the days.
You find yourself along scribbled lines and drown in between their cryptic murmur.
Finding ways to solve a problem that never existed until the quick flick of your pen spoke before you did.
Creating a world with a population of you, your mind and whatever drags itself onto the train.
A questionable geographical purity
Do you become words you wish to translate into being or are you the translated version of the words already?
With note of added scripts from other lined pages
At what point do you reach a point? Is there a point?
Retracing back to blank
Untouched lines, you itch to fill yet find yourself on a race with your brain
spitting light beam information
hoping to spill your content only to spell out new whispers