I write. And one day I wrote about writing…
GREY MATTER “12”
I write.
It’s kinda my “thing”
My dope.
Planted and harvested exclusively in my mind-
Compelling Complexity of human-Nature,
instigates,
the Progression of my Reality.
I am the queen of Hearts-
in a house of cards.
Re- arranging,
Re- configuring,
re-miniscing-
what it feels like, to be-
born.
Building, Crumbling
Creating, Collapsing.
Always Writing,
Never the “writer” –
Waiting
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.
Imagination.
un-Flowering-
the pedals of my Perception.
Words linger in the air.
Above my conscience, vision-
Stalling,
Anticipating.
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.
And-
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-
exhaled,
into the void-
of Knowing
to Share, to Relate, to-
Exist.
My Thoughts are not mine to keep.
They are there- to be- free
And shared.
Felt- on a bigger stage.
Absorbed.
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.