Isn’t it funny how fire destroys everything that allows it’s soaring embers thrive?
The things that keep it alive?
kinda like us.
You suck the life out of me so you can glow even brighter,
leaving me to cough up the ashes,
Your crippling flames leave my fingertips blistered and burnt from the mere thought of you,
but soon I will no longer be a source of fuel,
I was just a Serendipity as you were racing through the silhouettes of land.
Inkling 
If tragedies aren’t what fuel the poet, what does? We compress sadness into alternate forms ; transforming thoughts into visions and emotions into collisions . Conflating planets and lissome dreams. Writing is our moiety to water, these are our quintessential needs to have blood circling through our veins and blood lumping through our bodies. Writing- our elixir to life,I our drug, our way of taming woebegone thoughts.
Sent from my iPad
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