I spend my whole life                                                                                             

     trying to read you

while simultaneously trying to make my face

     a page in a book

     you wrote

so you would come home every day just to dwell on the words on my mouth,

     spend so much time with them

     that one day you might run your fingers

     through the pages in my hair,

     cherish the personification of desire

     that you made

and be pleased.

—

Today you said you can’t read me

and I realized

that if you tried, you wouldn’t even find me in the footnotes

because its easy to get carried away with a red pen

and all the time in the world

So 

I’m writing you this

and though the sleeve wearing my heart is paper-thin

I swore to myself I’d publish…

Today you said you can't read me

but I say

you can.

Please, tell me I'm not your average library novel

free me

word for word

weaken the stiffness of my spine

hold me 

run your fingers down my back

and make me your well-read favorite.

Think                                                                             

if art isn't a product of contemplation 

i don't know what is

thoughts in the form of prayer

for comfort?

no

for beauty, for visual appreciation?

the simplest phrases

resonate

and its just a figment, fraction, piece of mind

produced by naive imagination?

no

perhaps it is a pining desire

for transformation

imagined self-improvement plans

conjured up in minds

upon seeing pages in a book

one book,

speaking wisdom into my heart

like a live thing

it is alive

believe there is.

hope for the upcoming.

i know anxiety like none other

mostly inside dedicated moments

where my perfection tries

and my reflection lies.

art is the somewhat-graceful

child of losing oneself into a loud state of 
that which is thinking...

and then

Revelation breaks through

and the easy silence

holding three parcels,

unconditional things,

brushes my thoughts in passing

and i am free.