With every poem I write
I’m putting myself
On the line
With no place to hide
Except the space
Between words
Giving breath to a flow
Of thought
Automatically spilling ink
As if the pen in hand
Has a mind of its own
I’ve been the sparrow
And the crow
The rebel and the wife
A headline story
Sound bites
Underneath the layers
Of dust
The many renditions
Of myself
How travels the mind? Faster than air… light…
It has its own way… Imagination cannot be traced…
Events have mutuality but
Ideas are mutually exclusive…
I can make my own story, I have already done that, makes me feel
far ahead…
The land of imagination exists in the subconscious realm,
each and everyone’s… Though few have control over it… Discovering
it from subconsciousness to consciousness raises a vision and
an untold story comes alive.
Writer’s block.
The words are always there
Floating around within,
The mind a mix of
Emotions wanting
To be set free,
An avalanche of thoughts
Dying to explode into words,
Lost feelings never to be seen
Or heard, just thoughts that
Never got typed up
A world of emotions
Never set free, never typed,
Held, waiting to be set free
Until the time comes
When words are more
Than just spoken.
I resist the arcane.
I have to come out from hidden springs unscathed. Too many symbols. I have to uncover all those splendid truths.
I relapse into poetry,
he said, after long
bouts in between.
I spend a few days away
on a vacation of the mind
then must return
if only for a stanza or two.
A tale
untold unheard
an advertisement
washed white
a full story
after the delete key
a mouth
open
trying to form
words.
Act of putting together
tantrums, haywire thoughts
throw back of poetry written
in spiral bound books.
Tattered pages bleed
the word lives silently
sleeps silently
dies silently.
You, quixotic
You, gnomic
Your head sprouts gashes
Take a tumbler and roll on
A sea coaster and dash the waves
Once you were sprightly
Now ghostly
You macabre-minded ghoul
Remind me of a night owl
the blinded bat, at the drop of a hat.
I run furiously
after the small
cloud of vapor
forever running down
a winding path
of human imagination.
The not so stranger
knows my name, making
me pretty promises
each day, my muse
with no name.
I could speak to him
but it may threaten
to break this chain.