Why do I do what I do?

I don’t know.

Perhaps to relay it to you~


Am I crazy?

Who cares?

Just walk in the house,

and out of the cold.

To be immortal,

is to know my soul.


I must share.


I have loved you from afar,

but now you’re looking close.

Do you love me?

Can you love me,



haunted ghosts?

Can you train me?

Can you teach me?

Will you show me what you know?

The others have

not been kind to me,

or so,

I have been told.

If you hate me,

once you know me,

I just could not go on.

So I prefer

the stories

in the halls of my


Family, friends~

I tend to trust

free love

of strangers.

It’s safer for me there~

where they mostly do not care.

I have gotten

to the point

where I must face my biggest fear.

My mantra is:

“I don’t care what you think.”

My modus is to love you.

Let me show you what I know,

so that you can come with me,

so that I’m not so alone.

I need you, but

it is about me.

Will you let me use my fingers,

weave desire

into love?

I fear that I cannot be

loving enough, or too much~

that I may tear you all apart.

How do I try?

Where do I start?


the Masterpainter

To touch you in words makes me wet,

however, less so than times we’ve met,

dancing on the edge of a circle.

I’ve held in tight, baby bundles of anxiety,

but you’ve coaxed me out,

one delicious finger at a time;

so high that reality is

2D and I am the Masterpainter.