I’ll be your poet and painter before I’m your fuck boi. Don’t get it twisted, with a silver tongue and cheek I will paint you with my head under water. You will be something that makes music have point. Yet not too bury my head too deep in the sand, I can live in solitude with your memory in ink. An octopus couldn’t fight the quills I carry. I have never danced blindly the way that you saw sonnets in the dark. Edgar would value your crazed ways. I can’t help but dream in black holes that we have survived. Neil Degrasse Tyson can’t even explain your touch that supersedes galaxies. I have your record on and its skipping. I have no choice but to bury my head in forgetful sand and fascinate about the little things that made the universe worthwhile. You are forever collywobbles, no matter what fuck boi hurt you. I am sorry I did. I don’t want to be a guise of uncomplimentary tone. I am your poet. Your painter. Your confidant. Your ink. Your pleasure and inevitable pain. I paint myself a master in a monsters skin. I am nothing if I can’t spare you my demons. I am sorry I bleed dark on the page. Can I borrow a quill to paint a new shade and form songs inside your existence.
-Joshua Tool 04/17/17