my nails are long, for I've been busy.
they have become weapons, scratching out a better tomorrow
I rely on these jagged mountains to trim them
these steep peaks to bring them,
back down to the thin point,
where warm blood is a moments notice.
Sometimes on this path,
sign posts point back
like a cruel mirror first thing in the morning after.
And then I turn these nails upon myself.
Masochistic, they find the softest parts
and expose the insides, as when a truth arrives to the light.
If this skin is a closet, then the skeleton within,
I am him.
In a room hotel white,
is a worn blue bag
is what is my life.
At home in the roam, at home in the roam, at home in the roam.
My presence is a cologne, easily enjoyed, but destined to fade,
behind the mirror, awaiting the next spray.
Nomadic tragic, judge me by what I leave behind,
For I shall always be in between.
Never end the means.
Begging permission, from anywhere its given,
but still left with pockets full of my own choices.
I live love like I love life,
Fast, charmed, aloof, and with a knowledge that the end is certain,
For the canvas borders are what lends me the freedom to create
The pressure to perform lest karma drop the curtain.
Art is nothing in the dark, yet nothing is the dark,
so once again I pack my bags,
and guard this soft heart.
Until one day, my fantastic fantasy illustrates,
will glisten with a shine,
that these fears cannot debate,
it shall be great and common place,
and simultaneously mine.
And I shall call this my reason,
and it will be enough to call home.