tHE PoET's LiTTLe BLacK BooK
I carry around a little black book wherever I go
To help me remember, and forget; to feel, and be numb.
It comes well-stocked with pills and
an emotional paintbrush.
And all the latest colors of deception. Or truth. Being
Purgatory is a choice.
Between Dante and Michelangelo.
Fire and brimstone, perhaps, but still a choice.
Like this blank page that devours me.
Choice being difficult.
Only the muses’ absence could ever devour my soul.
But they are with me
And we are dancing
As life is rhythm
And beauty is light
And love, its purest form.
And words, well,
They exist to enlighten.