Ink spills into words as the blank pages of my book come to life, seeping the blood of my existence,

Memories unleash the flow of thought, as do the ache in my heart,

Long ago cries to me, each episode plays me like an agonizing vision,Browsing back I see each one that intrudes the here and now, Ill-fated truth is the flaw that follows my shadow,

Trapped I know of it, thinking, I cover my eyes, so that I may not see in the mirror that begs to look at me, reading my mind, A cycle of life, A force of deja vu in my pen, my hands move so swift, it knows me, repeating it again and again torturing my weak soul,

The triumph of understanding is what it seeks, as I try hiding facts,

My own hands carry me, with contempt,Revising my pages, a writer’s intuition says to me liar,

As the point of my pen continues on it’s journey, it waste onto the, penetrating thought, that soak’s in the faces of life, I can not help but to yield to it’s words, as I am the out cast of my on write,

Tired I can not seem to stop, it speaks of history, truth, want and the need to begin, with the hiding of my scares that are seen inside looking out,Yet again I have to the end of my secret and the tale story of beginning, middle, as for the ending only tells its truth,

Pages turn themselves, as to say all books have a past and the ending will be spoken if not on my pages someone else’s,

As allowed I whispered indulge me of my agony, intrude, worth, duty, detour my soul to the sad pulling of my soul,

Revise me pages,