Cold water on the body of the slide,

dripping from a storm..the sound of children screaming...

recess alone with a pad and pen.

My own world made of ink and devotion,

a place where I'm understood in a way I don't understand myself.

It's the only way to tame these monsters,

and to ellict that similar contentness I've grown fond of.

I don't hate this..the world is a good place,

a source for the sounds, and the images to roam free from my hand...

but I know that only in my world will I draw forth the emotions I stuggle with...

bleed for...

loes sleep for.

It's not a way of life...it was never an option,

it's a gift...it's a curse...putting words together like a magician...

pulling my metaphorical rabbits out of sudden hats.

It's my love, my heart, a true affair if I've ever seen one...

writing like I'm still flying on my flame.