Forgive me, if I forget proper etiquette.
As I get a few things off my chest, through lips I'll spit.
The ideas I fight, with all my might, trying not to ignite,
Into the light I am certain, opposite of final site.

Blazing, ain't it amazing how clay transforms in kiln
Or, how photo negatives develop from film?

I dug that out of Earth. Day one from birth
Dread fed head, nights in bed further bled
Every pore. Bred nothing but thoughts of dead ends,
Yet instead, heading for far more than scars scored.

Oh...no one knows the troubles I've seen.
Or any of the nightmarish scenes,
That have played out inside. These seams
Stitched from hides, I must hide it seems...


© Wordsmith Alchemist Roman