A new story is about to be written; not by pen or quill, no, but by a gun. As constant as the cicada on a hot summer Tuesday afternoon; the needles drill against its canvas.
A canvas as soft as silk; a warm breeze over the ocean. Soon will be marred with the marks of memories swirling around in my head.
As desperate as I am to rid myself of them they are as desperate to be written; to be seen in all its ugly splendor.
Vines of green and blooms of blue a tie to my heart. Encircling my shoulder in such tender caresses as it paints an image of my life's journey.
A journey of California, deep in my veins as deep as the mountains swallowed my hometown. Sunsets, ocean breeze, crickets and honking horns.
All in one single image; simple in its grace it tells a story of growth, a story of love; blossoms of self. In the eye of the bird my soul is bared there on my skin.
Stark in contrast to my pale complexion; blood upon the snow. Get the voice out of my head and onto its canvas so I can show instead of tell.