Blue dotted lines, infringements and bloodied stains on dead tree skins,

 

Are colored in and masked by the tap of a pen.

 

The forest feels my mark,

 

The inspiration for some zealous creative spark.

 

 

It is here that I write with mourning,

 

For that hot ebony coffee drink pouring remnants of child slavery and handcuffed voice.

 

I write to the producers, consumers, assumers, decision-makers,and destroyers,

 

By giving the reader a moral choice.

 

 

I write to star lit lovers,

 

bodies electric with quantum magnetic magic.

 

I write to remember us together,

 

To preserve your soft lips forever.

 

 

In sweet chocolate nightfall, I write to feel your fingertips

trail on a country road of bones,

And to be serenaded by thoughts that translate into feelings that wondrously rhyme.

I write to identify, quantify, and categorize some rendition of what’s real,

I write to tune in, turn on, drop out, and kill time.

 

 

It’s the open spout that unbolts a beating heart,

 

An ethereal vessel containing  rage, fondness, yearning, and a will to express.

 

I write to make my voice more than a number on a ballot box,

 

I write to my sins, secrets, passions, troubles, and I find solace when I confess.

 

 

Writing’s more than just some hobby,

 

A random day spent lying in great grass.

 

Words help me pin down meaning,

 

Onto the page, they reflect my true being like illuminated glass.