When the room is still,

you can hear the untencil

briskly brush the paper.

I can hear

my thoughts, my fears,


emotions thump at the roundness of my skull.

The words, they scream at me.

They call for me to follow them into he night,

to listen to their whispers, and,

walk down the gloomy stairs to the gates

of where is their origin.

As the utencil hits the paper, I forget what happens later,

and I

follow the serpent into the woods,

but I dont look at the bearings,

I continue walking towards this sweet aroma,

this satifying light that

makes me grit my teeth as smize.

I see such sweet and sour fantasy,

the life of a girl I wish was me. I

am awake, no?

She says that I am dreaming,

but my eyes are open,

I have words on the paper.

My thoughts are scrambled in my head,

but they organize themselves for the

erotic, eloquent flow of fantasies on his sheet.

Guide that inspired this poem: 


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