The Word

When it's coming through
When you can't put the pen down
'cause you have to keep getting it down
When everything paper
gets scribbled on
and
you need more pens, pencils, crayons,
chalk, paint (spray can type)
When you are writing at traffic lights
hoping the next one is red
and
all the others after it
'cause it is flying in, flying out
and
you know it won't be back
the same
ever again
and
it keeps coming
and
you keep chronicling
You think it's endless
inexhaustable
then
you try to control it (first mistake)
and shape it (this is known as stepping on your dick)
then
you origami fold it and stuff it
into boxes, categories, caskets
You've killed it
Actually
all you ever have is its skin
the carcass
IT can't be had,
not captured,
not even quantified
Pristine
Virginal
and forever
Undefiled