This is me, between all lines

if only my heart could change its mind like my hand changes font.
(my heart is a pen for a ready writer.)
if only my words could be easily laid out for those in traffic as a song blares.
(i am no song writer.)
my song is a lyric & high note of a nervous singer.

i want to tell you something, do you have patience enough to wait for the paint on this picture to dry?
i bruise easily, the ink on my skin is from within. How kinds of roses are there? they fall cross-bred individually all unalike from my head, wilted but alive.

though my heart has me exposed, this light skin is from the lack of discovery.
i had a re-occuring nightmare of being stabbed to death. it isn'ta disappointment that my ears n tongue never bled.

i have no suspects, no one to blame...
i am alone in this casket, buried alive.
as i pick at the wounds, the blame on you is deliberate.
what mine is, is not issues, its a pending question.

my eyes are inherited, the rings around then earned.
my tears are not liquid, i call them abstract worry.

i am not an artist. words become me.
mine is not defined ART.
a sixth sense for the mute.

my inner muse must be a bear, for her hibernation stretches n crawls under the skin, like the cold of winter.
the scars that i have from falling as a child were all mapped out.

my nails are designs, ideas that teeth can't quite grasp.

im wondering if my right foot is leading to a path i once lost.
the blue in my closet was made from fallen sky.

my beads and bangles can always be diamonds and pearls.
(not all stars shoot.)
my words are of mine, not to be praised
(those that love more, have no one)
my heels are never high.

the gateway, window of my soul could never be my deceitful eyes, no.
but fear of the rising sun.
my screams are as harmful as my laugh strains me.

the iilusionists directs attention elsewhere,
the source of my beauty is not my smile.
the arch of my eyebrows is not been carved
the taint of my skin was a gift from the womb.

in the pool of bliss my navel is not the shallower end.
the chereography of my hips is not a double joint.
the humidity in my lair is provoked.

and in this trap, the sounds are the same as the words i carve on your back.

in this so usual expression, a woman pushes through.
the capability n potential of destruction caused by the nature of man is not for the faint hearted.

i could write on n forever
but i want those moved to continue...