Paper Love

My hourglass mind is an inkwell of unkempt dreams.

Gauche grains of sunburnt suspicions pivot in a pendulum pulse between my heretic heart and brassy brain,

Gauche grains of sunburnt suspicions pivot in a pendulum pulse between my heretic heart and brassy brain, often stampeded by flustering flutes that raven at memories in bittersweet butterflies.

I cannot love.

I cannot love. I cannot think.

They are not butterflies,

They are not butterflies, but a mouthful of moths that give salient sensations of smashed stemware fractured into spider-web silence –

They are not butterflies, but a mouthful of moths that give salient sensations of smashed stemware fractured into spider-web silence – crystal clarity cannot hold my malevolent memories without splinters of bad dreams.

Yet, I still have paper passion before my heartstrings pulsate to pulp

Yet, I still have paper passion before my heartstrings pulsate to pulp and the tenacious papercut tongue slithers nightmares

Yet, I still have paper passion before my heartstrings pulsate to pulp and the tenacious papercut tongue slithers nightmares carved from words of sunshine.

I can only whisper my words into the flicker of day

I can only whisper my words into the flicker of day as the sunset saunters into the shivering shadow

I can only whisper my words into the flicker of day as the sunset saunters into the shivering shadow of bloodshot blisses.

My hope is unsteady.

Spotlights of stardust steer for the silhouette canvas of vociferous verses.

The inkwell dips and the words pour,

The inkwell dips and the words pour, unlatching the callused cage of stunning songbird sonnets into the nocturne nurses.

My hourglass mind dissolves into paper poetry;

My hourglass mind dissolves into paper poetry; my pendulum of eventide ecstasies reclaims both heart and mind

My hourglass mind dissolves into paper poetry; my pendulum of eventide ecstasies reclaims both heart and mind as they fuse and fury into a language that sings paper into rainbows.

I hate it.

Will they like it?

Will they like it? Will they see my spider-web splinters and how my shadow shivers?

Will they like it? Will they see my spider-web splinters and how my shadow shivers? Or does the ink blemish it with ethereal exuberance?

Why do my fingertips flourish and tiger-tap at a collage of artistry and dreams?

Maybe it’s okay.

Hope is a hero, and they aren’t born.

(Aside) So, this is the first piece that I've written since a few failed attempts after my 'Dandelion Day' piece earlier this month. I apologize for any dip in quality, but I hope that you enjoyed this piece!

This one is a bit more of a downer (although I always like to be hopeful at the end), but I enjoyed writing it and I like writing in a more 'prose' style. I actually had an extremely happy day today, and the smoke in British Columbia seems to be gone where I live! :)

I hope all of you are safe and happy. Please keep writing and unlike what I say in this piece, know that you should not doubt any of your amazing talents. Take care, all! <3