I don't dream a haunted pen bleeds, I would have to share
My fame.
I don't dream a calloused hand cramps, I would have to fool
Your lie detector.
I'm the boy who spills ink in his sleep,
Who culls daffodils from the Carbonado puddle,
(I'm The Enigma, not you, Persephone)
Who wrestles streaks of sky on white,
(I'm the page turner)
Who etches with Achromatopsia,
('Cause I don't write like the other guys).
When I compose in royal purple
—made with l̶o̶v̶e̶ Greek salads au naturel
I curve artboards,
A couple letters, you're welcome,
Onomatopoeia that you need to hear,
And sentences worth my noble prize in literature.
Chasing my personal legend,
Over borrowed maps,
Quotes, quotes and perfect signatures, I pose
Along them obnoxious peaks,
Contoured by squiggles and unspecific numbers, I place
Inspirations to a tramper's tired sight,
They will see my name in first focus.
And I apple in their gaze,
Aren't you
Toosweettoosweettoosweet.
I recite stanzas at cafés,
Potential admirers at cafés,
I am the magician,
Words ballooned,
Till they
Pop!
Your chatter bursts,
And I sprint with a decadent army,
At the last brownie, controlling your brain activity,
And back.
(Mine are triple choc).
Back to the tongue's effortless conduct,
To the child's circle around it that goes
Areyoudoneareyoudoneareyoudone.
Yes, i am.
