Fool – I have no idea.

Fondly fuming over the oddly amusing, strangely seething with distressed good meaning.

So while strange seething of seeming distressed good meaning this fondly fuming fumbling fool does proffer a profit towards friendship true.

Still delightfully disturbed and perfectly perturbed this friendship true I offer you, with no feeling of ill or rue, though I’ll admit an adversarial amusement in diligently distressing in minor measures the thorough thinking and intellectual illumination you offer in return for this friendship true.

So fondling fuming and oh oddly amusing this strangely seething fumbling fool does offer a profit in form of friendship true that thankfully is through and through a simple thing to seemingly soothe the strangely seething intellectual you, this fumbling fool you call your friend would walk with you forever, hand in hand, but alas as always it’s an exasperating experience walking with that fondly fuming ever musing fool.

Perhaps if proffered once more we can start again with smiles and laughs lacking the lack luster feeling that fills the intellectual you while standing beside this fumbling fool, I’d apologize,  but this fumbling fool that is perfectly perturbed and annoyingly amused is all I know to be and all I’ve ever been but being this being is not in keeping with this proffered profitable friendship, so perhaps its time we walk another way, back to back and facing a way, walking apart and never together leaving this past behind.

No long fond, not really fuming, just here sadly seething at a foolish fumbling me that let the future fade before it even became the past. Lonely, alone, and ever the fool.

You walked away from me.

Writing My Soul

I have a strangeness in my hands, a tingling in the soul

My muse is calling, my muse is carving

Worlds and words only she does know

Not quite the tool, not quite the art

Something in between

This place in which I reside, thoughts in front words behind

With pen in hand and paper near, thoughts of my muse I hold so dear

I am the writer, not quite a tool, not quite the art

The soul of language flowing forth like ink I impart

This task I have, this place of mine

It’s what my muse made of me, not something I desired but something I did find

My ink my blood, my words my pain, the bits of brightness shine

I share my life, I share my soul, I bare it all and the scars do show

But this is my place, this is my part

This painful digging at scars is all part of writing, language’s art.