Virtual Canvas

Image

Write again and again and again.

Write despite the doubt.

Write despite the ego.

The emotional times come and go, and it is coming again.

She thinks, “I would love me if I saw me in a corner.”

“I think I would come over and snuggle up under my chin, making me feel important to me.”

“I could do that.”

“I could see that happening. “

but the thoughts. . .

The thoughts rarely make it out of the brain without having strained its first intent through second and third thought.

These Ideas are not mine.

I have read them before same as I have read all ideas.

This day being the saints day,the saints that kill in order to worship day.

My day of worship to the  jumble of word.

Worship to the emotion.

The emotion that can perhaps escape every once in a while from the second and third thought of reality.

Let the liquid squirt and let it burn in your eye, carve a memory on your intestine of the giggle that rumbled up and escaped your grown up lips.

The thoughts become murky as you try to find a way to bust through the internet lulling you to the view you have craved your  whole life.

The view of you.

The view of your creation.

The virtual is now a canvas, now the out pouring of the soul, ink no longer needed.

And the fear that it will be gone forever is not needed. IT is always somewhere.

YOU may not always have it but someone will have it.

It will BE somewhere.

Even more so than paper and blood of earth.

Now it is in the mass webbing of portals you never knew existed just from pressing send.

So. . . send, and send, and send, and let the music rock you to your lulling place.

let the jive take out the broken blues that craved the big ten inch of life the kissing time that broke the sun into blue and purple pieces of self indulgence.Mmmmmmm…

The cock of the matter comes not near our mouth but our thoughts, the rooster roosts and left alone you feel partaken upon.

Given and withdrawn.

The red of the pillow makes you laugh. makes the smile creep.

You thought you would care more and give a shit less and it has worked out to be quite the opposite.

Crimson grace my lips, finger tips touch the smooth sides of me.

Look no further than the taste on your lips.

No further than the thoughts in your own head.

No one is guilty for creating you.

You are free, the thoughts are all you are.

The time is always passing and no longer are you relevant.

No longer are you needed nor disposed of.

You are nothing. and yet you are everything bendable and solid.

Water liquid contradiction.

Ramblings on the day that wine can feel free to come and take  away.

Like it or not this is we.