i write.

I write. And one day I wrote about writing…


I write.
It’s kinda my “thing”
My dope.
Planted and harvested exclusively in my mind-

Compelling Complexity of human-Nature,
the Progression of my Reality.

I am the queen of Hearts-
in a house of cards.
Re- arranging,
Re- configuring,

what it feels like, to be-

Building, Crumbling
Creating, Collapsing.
Always Writing,
Never the “writer” –

for the “thing” which calls itself to be-
written about.

Repetition taunts my hand
re- teaching itself how to move
My mind-
re- learning, how to think.

the pedals of my Perception.

Words linger in the air.
Above my conscience, vision-

the Discovery of Me-
to it,
to Them-

A Blank Page our “home”-
A Real-ationship, full of relating.

I find it-
the Words find me.
The pen-
finds the paper.
Something is burns.

The pursuit is personal evolution.

I desire no method, to follow no Guru, or-
Prescribe to practice, not of my own- pure-nature.

To Write- It is my Zen.

That singular, solitary place,
In a chaotic stream of living-
consistently, consciously
tuned in, tapped in—
with precious energy that occupies its Space-

In Here,
I get to feel Me.
here- Is wHere it’s Real.

And, it’s Simple.

Here is where I sit, and I write.
because- it’s kinda my “thing”.

The Purest High,
I’ve ever felt.

perfection is…
A State of mental manipulation.
The Poem, writes itself.

The writer- an instrument.
for Thought longing to be-
into the void-
of Knowing
to Share, to Relate, to-

My Thoughts are not mine to keep.
They are there- to be- free
And shared.
Felt- on a bigger stage.

I write to be heard.
I write to Hear-my-Self.
I write words. To Be felt-
never to be read.

“12”. GRB. 10/5/11.


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