UNTITLED

I miss the sound of your words...not gone are the days when I look through old papers and read the words that bring such tender delight, soft kiss, deep strokes, no inhibitions just written restrictions...I sit and wait for you to miss me....missing the way your eyes used to kiss me...memories dance around my thoughts, thoughts dance around my pen. my pen dances around you...my paper longs for you...longs for your words, words that bleed truth, truth that begets passion....passion...past action...writing in a language that only the greatest can master…writing faster…righting wrongs faster…fasting writing because I can’t find the page master…the master of my page…I walk on stage and create a lyrical disaster…like a pastor misleading his flock…only my people can’t follow my heart’s desire…the words don’t reach them…and I can’t teach them…and I don’t wanna keep them…because they belong to you but my passion will always reflect a past action of a passion that begot truth…because my words bleed truth and the truth is that my words long to reach you with no inhibitions nor written restrictions….