I’ve spent my life writing on a blank page.
The ideas of my mind, splattered and beaten with exhaustion and rage.
They have been put in one at a time.
The minutes, the hours, the days, devoted, all of them, mine.
My Heart is lonely without the precious dream of imagination.
They drift me away from the deranged home of existence, and into an unknown happiness.
It is here where all the trains gather, and separate the truth from the lies.
The sole truth is discarded as a mere nuisance of a fabrication in mind.
It is done, perfection.
The endless hours of labor; in the palm of my hands, the tips of my fingers, bruised with red.
The apple of my sought contentment, do I dare take a bite?
The juices flow through my spirit of writing, leading closer to a bright light.
I think it’s time to go to bed.
It is done, Perfection.
