There are days that I find
I do not identify with the me that
reflects in the sight of others.
Lost in my subliminal mind,
when ink spills and pen is broken,
my quiet tongue is the ripple
that begins the crashing insanity
of rolling waves.
With eyes full of storms,
birthed from the silent serenity
of broken glass,
I carve my thoughts into caves
to house my reckless imagination.
But,
just give me a paper
and mend my pen;
I will paint you pictures
in stories and sonnets and songs.
Lend me your lips;
I will breathe in you
all of the words engraved
in the fervent waters of my soul.