Post Script:

words are a poor excuse
carbon graphite smudges
on paper fibers that seem
to have been constructed
as if with but one purpose:
to receive my love in liquid luster
as it reflects the light
off of strewn scribbles.
If I could bathe you in my
naïve euphoria, I would

I will approve less in time,
but Ignorance is bliss
and for the first time
I experience it willingly.
Serotonin clouds my vision
and makes my screaming soul soar
as if a hawk riding a thermal
as if he will never come down
as if the fall is too far forward in the future,
a figment of his frenetic fantasies
a dream to come in a future life.

I can still feel the warmth of her cheek
and the strands of her hair on my face,
burning beauty that inflames my heart,
and like a hot air balloon,
ferries my soul past the apex of Babylon.

The stultification                                                                         of a budding artist
                        Limitations that cause the little death of creativity