"Paper bag womb tossed down life's dry well. Fght your way out; still, the well is the world's iris gouged eye. Poverty's crooked lense scars foot and face, chains trembling flesh to choked breath, un- coupling the lung's longing. "

Red bleeds blue, bleedsblack, anemic graphite gray, and you sit in sour light, the stale bitter lemon, alone.

Think - "do not judge."Do not tear the soul'spage, abandon herto forty years of desert: infinity is not only zero.

Watch, what is your gift,metamorphosize, alchemy in reverse,gold into lead...

Pencil point life.

For, in the moment,what comes into being dies. What ...what dies, does it

return, in its perfect body,a lamp, that says "yes,"as "I" journeys breath's page, complete...no meager portions, no deadlines? Presence, the only gift, allows head to nod, not shake.

The hand desires contact, reassurance, creation, even if only wrapped around this pencil,even if the knife is drawnto cut shadow from torso,to demand space for self-respect, not self-slaughter.

that's cool. No, it is. I like it :)