Why Do I Write? (Poetcast Project??) Unofficial LOL

     I write now a short testament as to why I write and what influences me to lift the pen. I write not only for my adoration for creative writing, but as a form of therapy to help me cope with a diagnosis of schizophrenia. The emotional paralysis inflicted by this dreaded affliction is profound and has to significant extent inhibit my ability to socialize verbally and to interact with others. Networking with other writers has proven to be successfully therapeutic. Currently in my life, I have been working on my first book with a literary genre I have invented: Gothic-Surrealism. My love of reading the Gothic and the surreal influenced me to write my own creative material. So, why not combine my two favorite genres into something very special? This new literary genre, Gothic-Surrealism, can be simply explained: Deep emotionality, horror and suspense integrated between the disordered realms of imagination and reality by using the irrational juxtaposition of imagery. Now for a diagnosed schizophrenic, this is the perfect style of writing. The capability of expression to not only myself but to any reader who can relate with psychosis, anxiety and depression, which many who would read my work could suffer from, is an exhilarating feeling.    
     I write to find a truth which I know has been buried within me for too long, surrealistic thoughts and beliefs. It’s been screaming deeply within, even sprouting recently to taste the quenching air of normalcy it has so longed. Feeding it with my taboo thoughts, which I’ve chosen to keep hidden out of paranoia until now. I cannot stop feeding it with words and stories. It’s another stomach needing to be filled and stretched, its acid dissolving the negative thoughts and beliefs that enter, absorbing what I can make creatively out of all this. If I hold these truths to be self-vindictive, then maybe my perception of reality truly is distorted! How could you possibly explain something like this face to face with someone without unsettling them? Or having them attach all the stigma and stereotypes associated with this horrible mental disease.  
     I feel, see and hear the full extent of this psychological catastrophe. Thoughts of worthlessness reinforced by the scolding of others around me. Much of the world has proven time and again that it is not able to understand or, even willing to. The times I have found that certain someone who cares, whether they held a doctorate or not, came immediately after the emotional canister of gasoline had been tipped, the earth around me scorched by my frustrations and sorrow. I don’t want others to only listen after I’ve had a breakdown, no, I want the world to find me through my words and know me as a great poet and writer!  
     What drives me the most to write is the fight against suicidal thoughts. I contemplated suicide when the first signs and symptoms of schizophrenia appeared in the latter years of high school. Many young people with suicidal ideation carry the weight of concrete in their minds, when they were meant to carry the weightlessness of youth.  
     The reasons for the world’s rejections pin pricks my mind constantly, however, I understand the power of a stigma. Who wants to sit beside a stranger who speaks out loud and makes eye contact to someone who isn’t there? But I can’t change it. I cannot go through a day without thinking of the frowning faces, and what mine must look to them. The images wither and the cold returns to my skin. The face of one man staring at me, a rigid stone carving of a glare.  
     The ‘dream state' as I call it, that I fall into or, ‘episode’ will return unexpectedly. My physical being left as a corpse in this world as my soulful dreams leave such a stagnate thing behind. The Wall, a piece I wrote using a ‘wall’ as a metaphor for the threshold between realism (reality) and surrealism (delusions). In this piece I’ve followed the warmth back to the land stigma and sorrow never invaded. One side of the ‘wall’ is the world I can thrive in as me, not as a repulsive psychiatric patient.  
     My writing is generated by the combination of high-level emotions and surrealistic imagery constantly reacting within, giving us Gothic-Surrealism. It’s guiding me over ‘the wall,’ seeing me off into an artist’s paradise. I know I’m mentally ill, but at least I’ve learned to embrace it as a strength, not run from it as a weakness! Step up after fall is how I’ll persevere.

Words fall around me like autumnal leaves
Some landing in my hair
I rake them up into a pile
Jump in, throw them in the air.
Joyous child
shout out with glee
The world is bright and new
Poetry's like that for me

I have a thirst, not of love, not of lust, not of apathy
a stronger mix, of passion, frustration, and indignation
running through my veins, a cocktail better than caffeine
extreme attracts me better than serenity, chaos is the order
                trunk full of word, filled with delusions

I penned words, as I collect thoughts
expressing feelings, even those not my own
I see pictures moving inside my head
surreal and vivid, even in the dark or blinding light
          ink is drawn to define those abstracts
 
from a-z, am confused with all those ie  
memory often hazy, and I write as I remember
not correctly, but fragmented with fillings logically
or subjectively, partial to here and now only
            memos etched for my own accountability
 
I read and Eminem rap his fancy, and so I listened
talking to myself appears to be some sort of lunacy
I exchange correspondence with a celebrity
to argue, to be heard, when I am muted conventionally
            scribbling my will to fight the already given
 
Flashes of inspiration, calling my attention
keeping tab is the ghost of my indiscretion
wrestling still is tomorrow's illusions
within a body, soiled with a graying soul
            transcribing before a lone juror, I
 
I am not confused, just resigned to not self-scrutinize
why I write what I write when I write, I just write
the answers, I can cheat with metaphors and satires
reality can be whatever you like perspective wise
my own, I will leave as to who you are as you are
            chameleon is an animal festering in cyberland
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Can I write you a love song  
I’ll sing it softy in your ear all night long  
Blow gently without words on my saxophone  
Diamond and Pearls behind the throne  
A beautiful ensemble meant for only you  
As I give credence too  
Take my hand  
Cross this journey with me as I sing about faraway lands  
Past Egypt pyramids shifting Morocco sands  
Lay back my love, allow your mind to silently drift  
Feel the enchantment of my piano keys as it spiritual uplifts  

I’ll sing love songs of old  
A cappella chorus echoed from deep within my enlighten soul  
I’ll sing to you about the blues, society’s injustice, and elements of darken storms  
Keep your heart warm, while playing my French Horn  
Enrapture foretold from this dedicated symphonic poem  
A music sheet of percussion, woodwind, brass, keyboard, and strings  
Harmony carrying the mind away as the joy of coming spring  
I’ll hum your favorite beats, can you feel the crescendo now  
Fiddle from the heart by the sweat of one’s brow  
 
Submerge your cerebral cortex, lose yourself in the sultry tunes  
Harp sounds bathe of light kissed from the illuminating moon  
Destiny overcasts in the lyrics  
Fate floating stratospheric  
Karma of others handled in the eyes of satiric  
Opera, I give you so grand in its grace  
French Creole dialect murmured among silk and lace  
Sounds of my flute resonant to face  
Allowing my Cello sounds to thoroughly embrace  
 
Can I write you a love song  
My poetic whispers within the melodies as the ballads of us plays on
Body and soul serenading soprano to keep you standing strong  
My guitar stringing your philosophies along  
An equal equation, one plus one equals two  
Emotions, feelings, sentiments, its tenor expressed only for you  
No compass to my heart, my seasonal love found in hidden melodies  
Trombone guiding back and forth breathless as it please  
 
Orchestra sounds  
Ascending minds, bodies, souls, pass the opening clouds, divine and profound  
The last note sung by me as we gradually come down  
Beautiful music embraced, needs never to make a sound  
Shh, close your eyes  
Meditate on the music for a little while  
 
Hush sweet baby don’t say a word  
My heart softly tweets to a mockingbird  
If that mockingbird don’t sing  
Can I write you a love song created only for your being  
As minds are sightseeing  
Hearts fleeing  
Timpani drums guaranteeing  
Entwined of our divine wellbeing  
Emotional freeing  
Crooning of bodies heard as the day is long  
Can I write you a love song