The Rising of the Sun

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Believe in yourself

I don't dream of haunted pens bleeding, I would have to share

The fame.

I don't dream of rubied brows either, I would have to fool

The lie detector.

I'm the boy who spills ink in his sleep,

Who culls the daffodils from the Carbonado puddle,

(I'm The Enigma, not you, Persephone)

Who wrestles streaks of sky on white,

(I'm the page turner)

Who etches with Achromatopsia,

('Cause I don't write like the other guys).

When I'm not composing in royal

Purple, an ancient snail-plication worth my splendor,

I curve art,

A simile,

A metaphor,

Onomatopoeia that I make shout and shout,

Two senses in one.

On the illustrations of borrowed maps,

Quotes and quotes and perfected signatures, I pose

Along the obnoxious peaks,

Contoured by squiggles and numbers too specific, I place

Inspirations to a tramper's tired sight,

They will see my name in first focus.

And I apple in their gaze,

You are


Reciting a stanza at the cafe,

Potential admirers at the cafe,

I am the magician,

Ballooning my words,

Till they


Bursting their chatter,

Before I sprint with a decadent army,

At the last brownie, controlling their brain activity,

And back.

(Mine are triple choc).

Back to the tongue, flailing effortlessly,

To the child's circle around it that goes


Yes, i am.

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