Margins

The happiness I feel when I pick up a pencil and flow smoothly throughout the margins is magnificently inexplicable. It is a mental get-away on an invisible flight that ascends me to new heights unimagined by the normal mind. It is the reclined seats with no worries of disturbing the person behind me and if it does, so be it. Words can be a ginsu, slicing into the thinnest portions of minds that stand unprepared for its presence. Bliss revels within exuberance intertwining into a smile that emits a frozen pained expression of exhilaration. This happiness is innate. It cannot be manufactured. The pencil feels like it is apart of my anatomy as I write my observations, my emotions, my pain, my agony; my third eye becoming vulnerable through the point of the pencil. Heart pouring like the red wine that permeates its cherry aroma along with the apple cinnamon candle that burns at my tableside. I inhale the mixed scents, and exhale the fragrance of the slow sips taken prior. I am an inebriated Poet, my thoughts staggering an unstable, but beautiful script that can only be recited by my tongue. What can compare to this happiness? Nothing, as I continue to bless these margins with drunken thoughts, spewing my creative content all over the pages. "I am Eligance," I proclaim from the top of the world, shouting down at the masses of individuals who choose to listen. Open up your eardrums as my tongue will bless you in each way, giving you a taste of the mental levitation I feel each time I pick up a pencil. I can turn writer's block into a sexy poetic piece that enlightens the mind. When my eyes close, my third eye reveals a deep dive unto the ocean floor, divulging the contents for the individuals above the froth. I bleed happiness when the ink dries between these margins. It is a written orgasm that continues to thrust with consolidated impact. Inhaling my environment, I breathe out my natural emotions, whatever that may be in the moment. So you ask again apprehensively, what is happiness to me? Happiness is a state of mind when an individual can live outside the realms of reality momentarily in a created portal of the mind's eye. When it rains, it pours, so is the saying. I say, let it rain as I sit near the pane releasing my thoughts just like the droplets on the glass, cascading thoughts similar the precipitating visual. Happiness has become clear as day, even in stormy weather. As I write this, my mind moves in a poetic flow, taking me remotely away from my reality once the pencil is grasped. I foreplay with life, kissing it softly upon its nipples, exciting the clit of its opening, wetness accepting me with each thrust of my pencil, Satiating each space between those margins. As I wrote vehemently, passion implemented with each stroke, orgasmic sparks began to enunciate with each curve of the pencil between the margins. If I was placed on a cliff with that same pencil and paper, but with no parachute, my poetry would figuratively give me wings to soar above the potential perilous drop that ominously lies before me, dispelling fear of quick deadly descent. If I stared into the barrel of a gun during Russian roulette, my written word would fluctuate my thoughts past the impending click of trigger. Chamber empty or full, thoughts of bliss swirl in my head creating a new reality this world has yet to meet. Handshakes they have yet to initiate. You see, this happiness cannot be stolen, plagiarized, or duplicated. Innate in its natural form brings tears to the eyes, cascading to the lips bringing a pinch taste of sodium. If only I could lend my perspective to the depressed of soul, this would surely cleanse them inside out like a laxative, bringing them a new ingredient for the eye drop for their third eye. Rest assured, this happiness has been sparked years ago. It has been consolidated and exalted with a crown upon its head. They say there is strength in numbers, but I irreverently disagree. There is strength in confident solitude. The ability to be comfortable in one's own silence. Blocking out the world and breathing in your blemishes, excuses, weaknesses, and then exhaling rectification, implementation and reflection. As I gaze at the luminous surface of the waters with a full comprehension of my happiness when I write, I know for sure this: Nothing can stop me when I put my pencil to it.

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