Forgive me, it has been to long, like a wretched lark i have flown through rivers and come out on the otherside, daunted.

Are these words archaic?  Should i speak in the movement of my flesh across ancient scripts and canyon walls.

The drummer arrives every Friday evening and I dance and dance and dance to the beat and the sound of an elegant woman's voice.

Can I stop frowning on myself and see all the fruits and gifts of years passed, lovers come to pass, broken nights and soft whispered mornings?  A piano in the house, no door on the bathroom, hours alone, pressing pen to page, staring out at the world wondering, reading, collecting, absorbing like some uneducated vessel.

I have left the boat, I can sense it in my words.  I have carved out regrets and egrets on the wall with marker and admitted it was divine. 

There are ten half worked on pieces of furniture surrounding me, I am stepping infront of cameramen to catch an angle of light on this feminine piece of flesh.  Bounty, beauty, wishing to tend the fiercest garden, dreaming of a house stripped to the desparate bone.  How all good things take time, how all bad things take their time as well. 

Has anyone read this?  Am i crying out to the sea?  Am I just another sliver of moonlight?  Am I writing a book or a novel or piecing together all these written parchments to form a canvas made of hours of isolation and sorrow?  Am I just another moody twenty something crying out into the future abyss?  Do I HAVE TO CARRY ON? 

AND I PROMISE YOU ONE THING< IT IS NOT CHANGE I WISH TO SEE< IT IS A PLACE< A HOUSE> A MODE WHERE I AM NOT SO JOLTED> WHERE THE TWILIGHT IN THE EveninG IS ENOUGH>BECAUSE IT ALWAYS IS>

...i have lost so much trust and yet there are all these secrets of song I have been keeping.  I am afraid to sing out, but my voice has no other choice but to clear out all the forever secrets...there is no longer any tolerance.  I must sing, it is my elixhir.

FORGIVE ME PLEASE, THESE ARE USELESS SCRIBBLES BUT THEY ARE ALL I HAVE.