It's late I want to write I don't want to read nor scry
I don't want to design consumeristic graphics I simply want words to emerge as the Moon from behind clouds illuminating the field while I, as Ruth, glean what's left behind before threshing the miniscule amount into an ephah of poem to carry home ~
jilted thoughts scream for attention in the hall of ideas they make themselves known clamoring to be written mocking if you don't write it someone else will
so I take my muse very seriously kooky or not I pick up my pen writing what comes bursting forth sometimes channeling the immortal other times nothing much but I wait and see amazed, others are on my wavelength it's a beautiful connection us poets share
speaking a language only we know metaphors deciphered each with a different interpretation giving even the...
splattered that ink fucked with my feelings wonderful poetry burnt up and gone from history she came in as mysterious as she left maybe it was the unknown that captivated me like a stranger entering in the night taking my hand as we went for that ride slow dancing with such intensity all while never removing her mask
I try to look back at those words "deactivated" like all the other poetic lovers was it really that fleeting? has me feeling like a two dollar whore wish I could just learn to walk away envious...
There's nothing to write about Except for everything Always something there Pressing on my mind Needing expression There's nothing to write about Today or any day For that matter That doesn't make it's way To the forefront Of this dawning day In gratitude I lay bare All that is weighing On this blissful brain