Intense Ink

"Rhythm, Blues, Stories in the mood,

The Jazz that symphonizes the opera of time.

My thought danced in the room of the lines,

That reality could mind and listened to the voice of my footnotes,

That opened the minds around the microphone,

That sings in different tones of the perspective that forms,

The backbones of truth and strengthens the roots,

To see that the news of doubt that writing is dead,

Is only the headlines of fear.

Without writing, there's a lifeless soil.

The soil needs voices to water its soil,

So that it can continue to stand during the seasons,

That try to walk up and intimidate it,

To silence its beauty of holding its truth.

The bold line that caresses the spine of words,

That stand and dig deep into the mind,

To pull out unnoticed faces of chapters,

That love and respect the mirror and painting,

Drawn by the instrument that sculpted the curves,

Behind what sculpted the inner perspective.

Look into its eyes and define what's in between the lines,

That are parallel to your psyche of notes that wrote color,

Into dim corners of places that pages didn't want to uncover,

Until it pulled the hand that turned over the mind,

To fall into the dimension of urges,

To open the doors of its fruits that multiply its passion,

To live on even in fear.

If I were you,

I would have a candle lit fight,

That left scratches on the wall of minds,

And sketches that fall into the eyes of intense thoughts,

that chill inside a rhythm that makes it weak from an old soul touch.

Are you the time that passed by?

Or the time that lived through the storms,

And gave birth to light in journeys,

When they were once sitting at the same table in their reality.

Sit among the voices inside your mind.

Strip down from head to toe the no's,

And expose the naked truth that clothed standards,

And raised unspoken attributes that left seeds for positives to walk,

Proudly in the different shoes because of you.

In the genre,

Go into the arms of your style,

Inside visions that started as sketches then became messages.

The sour taste of looks within the sweet taste of peace of mind,

Show how to stomach the intimidation with a crumb cake of confidence,

And a cup of elegance that can't be broken.

The blurred lines are open spaces for ideas,

And guidance when the light inside the door,

Becomes obsolete."

----- Jennifer P. Tuck