I Just Want to Write, Right?!
I want to be a writer.
A wordsmith at best.
A papyrus, loose leaf, tablet and super AMOLED igniter!
I wanna unearth complex chains, corded chords climatic enough to be jeered at like hyperbolic similes.
It would be an absolute blessing to make bareback love to the accepting lines that somehow cohesively define the submissive divides of my notebook pages.
To be able to paint canvases resembling brownstones in hues and cues accused of being abused to amuse everyone but my muse would be an utter…profuseness.
To warrant my pen with the authority to actively scribe lesions as lessons over the secretly purposed adhesions for calligraphic recreation of every season is almost an abomination!
Which is all but unimportant to ranks of verbs that find solace in me being an effective writer.
I just want to write.
I would like to collect prohibited photography that imprisons the freedom of fornicating metaphors in the missionary position; verbal porn things!
Adoring scores of alliteration align active apertures abundantly according to atypical associations all the time.
Which means absolutely nothing what so ever it just sounds fancy as hell and did I mention it rhymed!
Pardon me as I write:
The context of text sweats as I gamble ink blots around sweet recycled spots frivolous enough to be labeled risky, I mean equivalent to the odds of winning against the guillotine.
Frisky Friday and freak Friday meets French kiss like close, spawning cold italicized German fonts…
Destined to be concentrated on by Jewish monks, paragraphs inscribe the dirty fabrics of time.
Poems dance into key signatures,
soliloquy solidifies the gorgeous defiance of wandering minds and infallible tongues.
Rubrics make the free verse strip search in front of onomatopia and sizzling clapping shacks snap on booms and squeals and squeaks and baps and daps simultaneously synchronized!
New terms go syncopated to form bordeax on palettes improvising clefts creatively dashed on by adobo,
Synonyms play word search on the Incredible Hulk’s biceps negotiating a redefined texture for literature.
Expansion of consonance with strict lit wit constant consonant sounds.
And all I forever want is to be able to write,
for I fully deserve that right, right?
Every pun is respectfully intended!