I want to make. I want to create. I want to put in form the force that stirs within. I want to do something other than… omg, words. My artistic medium so subtle and fine that it consists of invisible threads of mithral silk. I spin my webs of fate and weave them together in various ways.
I am a poet. I just speak. Or think. Or string words like beads of pearls into necklaces for the throat (you may hear it, but don’t see me. You don’t know what it means)
Forever young. Forever alone. Discrepancy between my face and my soul. My body is fine, my appearance is nice. But there is a disconnection somewhere inside.
I am hole. I am not whole. I am turned inside out, upside down and in reverse. V Y O I A aloym