The Wordmiss

I am a she-beast. I am a saint. My skin is radiant with sun and burns. I am postmodern. I am wild woman. I am the brainchild of my own making. I am an old soul. I am youth. I am master of my fate, and slave to my own whimsy. I am tender, as I am heartless. There is nothing in me that is not contradictory.

I am in search of the deathless. I am restless, my goal is nowhere. I am seduced to bliss and to pain, this raw feeling of being. I stand on the spine of a mountain, facing this wilderness. I am the hermit here, I am the libertine there. I am fixated by love and rage and a deep understanding.

My mouth is vile. But my eyes are innocent and pure. I am the lotus in a sludge of mud. I am fond of filth, but the sacred is the compass of my tongue. I have surrendered. I am revived. I am here. I am everywhere. Nothing is inseparable to me. Everything is carnal, as it is divine.

All has collapsed, and is always collapsing. I am atom. I have exploded. My body is a vase of want, without lips. I am inner fire. I have no name. I am a museum of secrets, both holy and profane. I am a vault of grotesque and beauty. I am watched by the sun. I am earthbound, I am unearthed.

Who am I? I am a visionary. I am a lover. I am a seafarer of intimate spaces. I am a gypsy. I am a dreamer. I am a calm beholder of the sky's many pages. Above all, I am an artist, and words are the grit of my expression. They are the stuff of my inkmade soul. They are my sole obsession.

Drop me a line here.

// Updated Jul 2017

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