Blur

I hear your conversations, I infer.
The flowing blackened waves forever stain
The white washed walls, dirtied with stroking blur.
The lightning rod conducting words from brain.

I hold you close, just as you're holding me.
Till knuckles whiten and your thoughts are spilled.
Like tears off cheeks, they fall on deadened tree.
I now can read, what all had thought you'd killed.

I am the couch, where feet propped high you hear
The words from fat men paid too much to sit.
I pull the strings I am the puppeteer:
If even you think you can control it.

I'm what you need, your life between the ten.
But I am yours, or hers: I am the pen.

-Joe Bohlinger