journey of a dream.

come now,
you didn't think i'd leave without a whisper?
that i would end the show quietly and
disappear behind my curtain?
i am fire, letting loose my cannons.
intrigued by chemical connections
forged to souls forged in the midst of a conversation.
i know not what this entails,
stories lay buried waiting to be written.
my fingers a sieve through which i sort
the words that shoot through me
neurons firing vocabulary at the waiting target.
i find myself surprised
when pierced, that i bleed actual blood
instead of the pieces of my stories.
heart strings playing the same old song,
words running through me,
yearing to be used correctly.
skin, lips, touch, smile.
but after comes the flood.
the levees break and
kick as i might,
my head decieves me and falls under seige.
overtaken by the current, my fingers fly undetermined
over my keyboard until
only the rush is what keeps me alive.
i am the current,
synapse bridges burning
while i hold the match and the fire extinguisher.
this feeling in my gut wrenches left
i am just another cliche of suffering artist,
my art both binding and freeing,
i am a slave to its whims,
but i know now that i could never leave it.
as much a part of me as my brown exterior,
maybe more so than my true face.
my words make the rise and fall empires
seem fleeting,
my words make my world take shape and
animate.
i am fine with being percieved as cliche,
deep down my heart beats with the scratch of a pen,
my soul knows only the smell of old books
and the sounds of rustling pages.
a new page is a new journey,
a new chance to make something beautiful.
even if the story is shit and it goes nowhere,
it's always better than leaving the page blank.