You must be disappointed,

you must not know how to react.

But that’s okay,

I understand.

I did it again

and I’m sorry.

I can’t help myself,

but to draw

to trace

from left to right-

it’s the only thing

that brings me peace,

serenity.

It satisfies me,

the intricate details

that I create.

The way it stains,

the way the ink bleeds,

sinking, drowning,

permanently marking

the thin floral fabric underneath.

The tip of the pen dances

like ballerinas on their toes,

relieving the tension,

rattled up inside of me.

It’s a show

that I’m directing.

It has a story,

it has a meaning.

You may not see it,

you may not understand it,

but to me,

it’s an immature, childish

masterpiece.