if my words are supposed to be beautiful, how can i possibly bruise the page? There are talks of assaulting the page when writing, to not stop and ponder upon word choice and what not, to just pound out the mind and keep churning out the brain blobs lodged under the ugly bone structure of the skull.

but what if i said i massaged the page, if at all possible, gave the page goose-bumps, a feeling against its surface so smooth and touching that pure gobbledygook came from the page's mouth, if the page did in fact have a mouth, in which if it did, i would knowingly kiss it, tongue it and truly show affection towards the page.

because i love it for its acceptance of me, of my words, of my brain spills (which do not stain, no, they entertain brains, leaving magnificent mental marks and conversation sparks) and for its time and patience, with my constant doodling and irreversible scratch outs(that eventually turn into neat, ink-filled boxes), rather stupid looking tattoos for the page.

my brain is taking a rest, all the love was running through the hallways of my head and I was overwhelmed. As I sat with my body, the cursor came to constantly poke the page in the belly.

I'm sorry page. it was annoying me too. maybe we should just keep going. I'll keep working my mind over your belly, moving south. but you're body is so long and no matter how many miles i manifest from my mind, you will be right there with me, running by my side, with your palish-white form, wanting me to touch you.