saidirla

spinning colors and twisting worlds a palatte of lives, freshly poured for my canvas mix two together a legacy is born swaying and bobbing as i retreat from prying eyes do they suspect?  wonder?  know. look what's become of me sighing as i shed my skin to become something more than mere substance my head is clear but clouded thinking things through for the first time in my life im making sense tonight

i miss you, and i want you back.  give me an eternity to live, and i can promise it won't change.  you were different, something new.  a break from monotiny.  but you've been swept away from me in the current.  get out of the water,  i'm drowning

i started writing today in genetics, & this is what happened:   what flows out of my pen?  where does it come from?  is it stored inside this tiny white tube, just waiting to be uleashes upon paper?  what kind of knowledge does this pen have?  do we actually control what we write, or does the pen guide out hand?  i feel sad for pens that break, their souls & feelings puddling around their broken bodies, as we frown in disgust & disappointment, pondering where we're going to get a new one...  we wouldn't do that to a human if they broke.  why should it be any different for pens?  we bleed them dry, & then we throw them away.  do blue ink pen