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I write in red ink.
Grinding pen into paper
trying to make something permanent
in a world already fading.
Ideas only new for an instant.

I try to know the impossible,
answer questions that have no truth.
Wade through the thick oil
of indecision

I am not the type to get rushes of
inspiration. Each movement and mark deliberate
thought out and with purpose.

But there is nothing written in the
growing pattern of bruises
or the criss-cross of emotion.

I am lost
only because I don't want to be found.
Isolation starts in the mind
solitude is soothing
insanity is soothing

Look into the mirror
even glass hates it's own reflection
nothing sees what nothing wants

Sympathetic smiles
grimace of ignorance
death of a generation
birth of a people

Cold heart
Dead soul
Bright mind
Liar, manipulator, false prophet

Eyes that lust cut deep.