Graphite

Some nights, when darkness invades all corners of my hell bound home and a lunar

coma hangs above my head,

words burn like an inferno with the veil of watercolor as it etches itself into the

crevices of my brain; desperate to be percieved.

A pencil.

Because eleven PM is no hostage to the explosive inspirations of my innate creation.

My hands will shake until the soul and the energy of my mind can be released into

the universe and I am at peace.

The paper will listen and the pencil will speak.

A pencil.

I will dive into an ocean of euphoria that I know I can not be baptized in,

but no faith can capture the intensity banked in the depths of my hands.

No God can persuade me to believe my seizures of art are an abomination.

It is my liberator after an elongated day of a captivity that the daylight tortures.

A pencil.

Perhaps it is graphomania,

or perhaps my obsession with a pencil grows like vines against an abandoned

home.

And suddenly,

cracked windows and moldy ceilings never seemd so delightful.