No original thought surges through me.
I am the spawn of any great writer
whose words I've read on the pages
of books I've befriended.
I am the product of any great playwright
whose realized dreams
I've the privilege to envision.
I am humbly a blank canvass
envying the art painted by the palletes
and horse hairs of the great painters.
I am the child of the dogmas
of the great philosophers and sages.
I am merely a marrionette
being played by God's unfathomable humour.
I have a mind that is just as deep
and dark as the trenches in the oceans .
I'm fucking complex;
a lot of times even I confuse myself.
So who am I?
Don't know even I!



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I Stalk Them:



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My Friends:

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Deviant Groups: