my mornings are starting to become afternoons
because my eyes forget to emerge
from beneath a glowing pool
of black and tender letters
my hands were built to make
and so they do-
from knife to pen,they glide and cut
through flesh and wound
of either plate or paper
with ceaseless demand
of silent glory
my life is a blanket,
a patched up work of art in the making,
doused in misery and flickers of hope,
a shelter for the needy and the greedy
because I am both
my days are but lyrical phantoms,
transparent lies cropped out to fit
a journal's geometrical body
and fictional desires
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