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Writing To Write

028/365

Hide my secrets in glass hands
That always land on keys
Making their last stand
Sculpting images I understand
Through old paint that I’m diseased
Want to bleed
Be exposed
To feed the need of those
Who need to see the flow
How the gears turn
How the gears go
Driving my eyes where it knows
Place riddle with prose and bad habits
Where brushstrokes sculpt stone rabbits into large planets

With the serum for the cerebellum
Fear him, he’s scary fella

I’m sick with the slick wit I spit quick
Slithering semantics, thick arithmetic and static

No clique
Word clip
Take aim
Take hit

And it splits the slit wrists
The words bleed out, they insist

If the truth fits the shoe, it’s a guilty liar
And I’m pathologically inspired to admired the entire idea
The higher enlightened fire it sparks appears
And the desire to spill the paint grows brighter while here

The words always slip
Morphed when they reach my lips
Forced by my fingertips

The paint I type my sculpture with is brisk
Paint powerful words frantic
Sculpt romantic shades of grammar
And stand for nothing

My hands don’t keep secrets
They tell lies with a hint of truth hidden in their eyes
And they size up the cost of the prize