Untitled Chaos

I have such good ideas sometimes but have a hard time putting them into words. Writing is my love, yet a skill I cannot master. Even at my best, I am no more than the average joe. I easily lose patience in others. If they cannot bare their hearts on a lose-leaf page of paper in some poetic paradise, I’m sorry but you mean nothing to me. I need to see the tear stains on your respected lines. Don’t think you have mastered with some overzealous confidence this language which you barely know.

“Them’s fightin’ words” or so I’ve been told.

The smear of this ink takes brutal honesty to a new and dangerous level. The pressure is too great here for the faint of word.

Day in and day out you mock my voice, but what you can’t see is the reflection of these words in my eyes. Your goggles are fogging up. I’m not your experiment, a specimen on your examination table. Your fake works and illegitimate actions strike me like a coroner’s blade, but I get up and walk away before your fingers can brace my dear cold skin for support. You aren’t strong enough to draw blood and piercing this skin will do you no good. Be careful what you say: it may not be good enough.