A sincere, well toned bicep.
The letters jumping out like a scare tactic.
‘Just a word…’
A visual of sensual static.
How diverse my thoughts can be…
When awakened from my migrant sleep.
Words…Have created an obsession ever since,
I believed they were items…
Never truly conceived.
Akin to a pig in a blanket of her own mess.
I would wrap myself up in pictures to relieve a writer’s stress.
Soon enough, my ego led to slaughter.
It is not the language that betrays me.
But the pleasing taste of indifference to conformity.