October 11, 2001
Still soft on the inside

I paint with ink, with words I don’t see, but choose to feel. My eyes open, a spider’s line crosses between paths… the glisten is gold, but I’m much too heavy to walk toward its resting place. But, if I could, I’d lay aside all that is reality, just to feel your inner peace for a morning, or maybe even a lifetime. Call me sick. Compare me to anyone. Shield yourself from me. Walk with, or without me. Now place your hand on this paper of white. Feel for yourself what excites me. Soil for thought—smoothness to comfort, a place to draw, and emptiness to feel. Call me jerky. Assume you know. Protect your little world. Sing out in bad harmony. Now lay your dreams on this paper of white. Taste for yourself, the gift inside… chocolate covered wishes, the flow of which is never ending—a place to be you without having to stand in a lane with a shopping cart.