Combustible

it's more than an obsession with words; i wouldn't go as far as calling it poetry, it's something more. this writer's fingers bite down on something, tightly clenched, feeding off of thoughts while the wrists bend and twist to the rhythm, bleeding words like splatters of blood on walls or pages. this writer's mind twists,then turns through memories of past, present, lost at daybreak and found on night's doorstep, only to open the door towards something more than bargained for. this writer's heart and soul ignite, then explode, like july's sky, a few intense moments of excitement that submit then surrender to total darkness. it's the death of one thought or more, depending on how intense and colorful the grand finale became. it's an autumn mourning not a morning risen, this viewing displayed before opened eyes as the writer closes their own. would you call that poetry?