A Writers Mind (uncut)

1

To delve into darkened detrition
to carry this blank rendition
of all I wanted to say,
I'm trapped in a writers mind
unable to escape belligerent and blind.
Words that kicked me, I kicked back
spitting soothsome surly smack.
Some of it does come from within,
I can't tell from how far down into
a murky din.
Turn back now, didn't you see the sign?
You want to read on; watch out its a
field of mines.
Step so lightly to not be destroyed,
the heart wears shoes that heavily cloy.
What will I write next, ask me tomorrow or never;
swallow it whole it tastes better.

             (I have nothing to lose)

Written in ink; read me, bleed me,
don't be afraid to see me
you'll never desire to be me.
I am but one and you are so many;
here alone I stand in a glass box
so you can view my scars
like a broken skull I will never get free
or sleep.

             'The garden has its secrets,
              like how everything grows
              in the night, under the cover
              of dark'

                              .....

2

Awakened.
How I try in insistence
to write myself out of existence;
it never works.
I get stronger, steeper;
the slope longer.
I hold on
tighter to my
beliefs as they
slip away.
Memorandum:  this ones a keeper,
confessions of a sleeper,
I just can't wake up to anything
deeper.
How can I find my heart when
I buried it
a long time ago;
I forgot where.

            (I forgot myself along the way)

This existence;
a rudiment.
I pulled it out by the roots
when it grew; so it wouldn't grow
back; I drifted till it was
taller than me
again
so I lay it under the sun
once again
baking the earth
shaking;
but no, it was just me
quaking.

                 'The garden looks so much
                  more beautiful drenched in
                  sunlight in daytime'

                              .....

3

Radioactive, I had lit up the night
pontificative I wavered.
I awoke to the brightest light.
How can it be I am still here
abating myself
with nothing great
of consequence.
I write again; the dream
to vivid to suppress
its alive;
pulsing in a cadent chord
of real time;
alone
dwarfed by giants.
I fit in a teacup
my mind spills everywhere
and the garden recieves;
humanity.
What commonsense
to anything.

                 (I need a blank page to thrive)

I am still here at dusk
a misty glow and a green cast;
yes, airborne spores
landing all around
I inhale them
and cough;
words
onto a blank clean
page; how it
recieves
they decieve - you.
How bad do you want
the truth; the garden
has its secrets.

               'The illusions are many,
                the shadows long; cast
                at dusk, in the garden'

                             .....


4

Fully aware;
reeling with
vagrance,
incomplacence.
And suddenly
there it was;
myself; I consisted of
the words.
I picked them like flowers
their pages flipping
petals cupped
to hold water
but it wasn't
raining.
Sweat on pages
smeared ingracious
making sudden sense
in absence of stasis.

              (I found what I had lost)

Wires twisted
jumbled, no vines
leading nowhere the fruit
terminal once written
leading me back
to cognizance.
Cold stones left
impressions on me
as I slept.
The heart still
beating still
misplaced
like dirt through
the fingers;
creation.

              'The gardens abundance
               is short for winter approaches
               and looms in silence'

                                 .....


5

Damn you;
silence how you
secrete violence;
nectar or dew
on blades
emergent they
grew.
But I am still here
mindful of consequence
and fear
which I buried along
with you.
The story is written
in ink so read it,
read it.
The sun to wither it
not feed it.
For to be fed it
needs you.

                 (I needed to be heard)

Yelling, shouting
at the air as it caresses
the horrid dream
I vomit up words;
a scream.
Mother earth needs
the sweet filth
to infiltrate
her soil to grow
mindsets clogging
aquifers.
So put in a drain to
the ocean
the hydroencephalitic
refrain beating;
like drums
in the mind.

               'Ground once broken
                must be tended indefinitely
                for it is given to overgrowth'

                                 .....


6

I can't stop it
fulminating;
an addict
fornicating; hearing
a drone:
Thought forms.
Buzzing and humming
growing looming
overshadowing
sensation:
I feel nothing.
So you are nothing
to me.
I saw God.
It played upon my
strands of
sanity.

              (I am no longer sane)

Faithless;
empty handed
at dawn the need
lingers as
the story grows
longer another day
never weaned
from mercy
in a fit of
fury;
the ink flows
copious;
irrigating with time
as the garden
grows ever
weary.

               'Oh, the garden will sleep
                when winter comes; a hard
                freeze, only then, only then'

                              .....

7

Acquiescent,
I recieved it
then
gave it back
to you.
Coalescent;
remains of a great
gardens bounty,
this mind.
I seek not to
go far afield;
I live inside the
necropolis.
It sleeps but I
am awake
and alive.

       ( The truth never died )

Mantras
never held water
that beaded on
petals,
the ground;
a sieve.
So how do
flowers grow
even in hazy sun,
are they storing
success or knowing,
or is there
verily,
none?

          'The garden seeks to
           resurrect itself after the
           winter has leveled it'

                       .....

8

Known truths
heal the heart
as oozing
plant salve.
Yet they are toxic
to grazers.
They crop up
like lilies in
warm soil.
So where do
they go
in winter,
and how do they
return in spring;
persistence.
Ignorance.

         ( My uncertainty is my truth )

Chasing mice;
illusive beasts
of phantasmagoric
mien; a display.
The words nibble away
at spent flowers
bent in
decay.
Food for thought;
another day,
a beating sun.
Mindstreams are
meddlesome;
their penchants
merely
platitudes
at play.

               'In the garden where
                truth grows there can
                never be surety of it'

                              .....  

9

Mysticism,
where does it go
when unsure?
Does it lift
the leaves into
the wind
as it strays
from within?
Or does it
remain to
sink low and
never give in?
What ever comes
of this
empyrium as
it becomes
a tumulus.

           ( I sink into porous soil to disappear )

Bones of me
remain; a frame
of mind;
pronunciative of
light filtered
through bare
stems.
I never knew where
to belong yet
I grew, I grew,
like trees in a
garden of mist
which surrounded me
and fortified me
in full sun.
They held to me
when young,
but now, it seems
they are
gone.

           'The garden casts shadows
            of doubt even as it illuminates
            what its growth uncovers'

                          .....
 
10

If gone,
where did I
go, the mind
that time
set free?
And where are
the trees that
sheltered me?
Oh, blaring sun
opening flowers
spilling perfume;
your words ever
run in drawls
on paper to
write me.

             ( I have written myself down )

Bare and
forthright; names
given to species
of plants.
Memory escapes
the life it seeks.
I need no name
to grow.
Hardly is this
garden
tame;
a wild refrain,
a kicking wind,
never knowing
how to slow
itself; it just
keeps blowing,
dying
to repeat
its name.

             'The garden remains beautiful in
              any light even as it ensnares
              and claims its sustenance'
 
                 ( Yet it barely wanted this )

                                  .....

 

                 Footnote:  I was inspired by this quote,

                        'Once one has seen God,
                          what is the remedy?'
      
                                 -From 'Mystic', by Sylvia Plath

  
                               .....          


                (Authors note: I typed up the entire first part
                 of this completely unedited as I had written it on
                 notebook paper, and then the rest was written
                 from there, that's the reason for the term,
                 'uncut', as well as the fact that it is deeply honest)