Perhaps the true artist was born free of intention and motive,
and fate truly could never have been...

Your fingertips were meant for tracing circles around my lips,
Could this ever be your poetry?

I want to be your muse,
and
I want to be your only
...

Your voice was meant to keep me awake in it's shrill
tone.. in it's sad sound,
Could this now be your song?

As you slam your torn hands on the rusted,
wine-pictured strings of your guitar
...
..
I cant help but watch and know,
You
are
Mine

[No You're Not]

Your form was meant to bend towards my own,
As we sleep at the bottom of the ocean
.Motionless.
Am I Your Proud Sculpture?
Standing without limbs.

My iris almost completely rid of black,
at the constant attention of the overbearing
sun.
Colors sink together in the doubtful flickering of
cigarettes
...
..
(Will this scene be forever recorded by the scratches of your paintbrush?)

Shoot Me______
_____And Let My Blood Be Your Ink
_____________

..I'll wish on you forever..

Melt my prayers,
and turn the twilight around
so that it may know my face..

So that it may know my face.......
.....

I am no artist,
I know nothing of brilliance or moon stone gifts of odyssey and explosions..
I can only write in the memory of today,
and hope for tomorrow.

I am no one,
but myself