<< : 2004-07-01 :: 2:08 a.m. : >>
Believer

I miss you words...

I miss you brushstrokes...

I miss music to my ears...

Creatively struggling, pushing to pour out, but I fill you with nothing.

Nothing but yoga and tea.

You crave, no long to be the girl with three crayons and cardborad, fearless she was.

Unafraid of poison, as buisness as usual, as abodoment of souls.

No she served you well, sponge up knowledge, caring for you, fighting for you, not gainst your inate will. Am I a believer, am I talent, am I stranger to my fate. My faith in you, in me, something I can not invision into reality, breaking down of things I make myself bloody for. I was your daughter though, your child to creativity to beauty beyond truth, passion beyond lust, I loved your very madest of creators, envying them in all my sin, to watch there personal greatness to see them unafraid of their divin spark driven only by you, mused on, passionatly creating, insane brillant. Watching them intensly believeing in nothing but themselves in their ideal, in action, impulse, and screw everyone else.

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