I write so that I do not forget. I guess it's as simple as that.

It happened in the library, a silent transformation that gave birth to a whole new person. It was in these painted pale pages, which are decorated in black ink and repeating letters, that I was born and raised time over again.

Designated for an expressive practice,

A sea of colors circle the blank canvas.

Carefully applied or haphazardly thrown,

The paints bid the brush and palette adieu.

Impasto texture or conceptual abstraction, There are many means to reach satisfaction.

I never would have married you if I'd known that you would break my heart and a bone.

A loyal friend, a comforting nurse, a trusted confident,

The fuzz ball of love is more scrumptious than a buttery croissant.

Gentle souls with clever eyes,

Their companionship is the best prize.

I broke my promise and let you die,

Now I must live with this lie.

Searching through plants and books,

My fingers trace all the wooden nooks.

Whose the crook?

She walked on the moon, she danced on the ocean, even though she lay unmoving.

It was a simple request, one easy overlooked in this place. I just wanted to be left alone and breathe; but they came anyway, with large metal razors and loud mechanical saws. So with a shout, I tumbled down, to be massacred and mauled by these mad men.