As I write, my thoughts drip onto the page.
I blot out the black, blatant lies While simultaneously underlining the fabrications that unlock my contemplations and delve into a deeper truth; scrawling hundreds of thousands of hyperboles and perhaps squeezing in an understatement here or there.
Staring down at this sheet of loose-leaf is almost like looking in the mirror, but not quite.
I can see my reflection,
But the image spits more than the faults and the flaws on the superficial surface.
The tip of my pen pierces through the exterior and reaches the interior.
When I look into the river of blue ink that flows forth, I don’t just see myself,
I see all that I am,
And all that I aspire to be.