Spoken in Ink
Intricate yet damaged, I'd rather you read me than hear me.
To some I'm rich, though in laughter over money.
Born North of the Oregon Trail, with an attitude just as salty as the shores my baby eyes first met.
Husky in timbre, and that's fine by me. Husky in curves to be it's companion.
My accent is irascible with undertones of understanding.
To others I'm eerie, kooky, perhaps a little spooky.
But I am my own mouthpiece; speaking my mind in a resolute cadence.
I've chosen to let the world hear my meaningful observations.
My closed eyes
My closed eyes
What do they hide
Within that static dark blackness
The blue glow of lines that slide from one lid to the other
The ghostly remnants of things I had just seen
My closed eyes
What do they hide
The cast and crew
Of a life I once knew
Upon their screen will play a dream
As my brain tries to make me see the moments unseen