My Pen's eye became infected. A storm where the masses wanted to Stone or breathe poetical life. Yet my arms missed softness for so long. So long. My eyes linger at a canvas. It's mystique. Idle blackness to ache to drops of ink. My hands cold as winter but feenin for the warmth of the sun. This beating heart belonging to no one. But screaming to be everything. Her everything. Even if I never beared fruit so sweet. To know my pen in a brink of a dying breath only the severity of I am the lines to feel immensely just to know yet comprehend something someone fragile and sweet honey coated beauty in a crowded room that tremble me with love. But to know love. Writer block must need to be a brick wall. Yet I dream to know what kryptonite was made a haymaker of a punch. Lines. Eating her with a flutter. Butterflies fireflies. Poetically surely I'm enough. Yet worship me. But I only want her eyes to see. This idle Fire burning in this heart belongs to me.