I am a prisoner of consciousness. I can’t exist outside the box of our culture, our advancements, our cell phones, our reality television, our Facebook portraits, and our scenes painted. Every one’s poetry vibrates into my inner ear and floats around in my brain fluids all day. The language pulsates with each collision as beautiful projections bouncing with buoyancy lighting and blackening on a projector screen.
Each moment I sift through the sea of letters, I become more Sisyphean. It never ends and I borderline obsess over the succession of sentences strung elegantly between pink and blue lines as if written eloquently without speaking. I am an explorer who extinguishes selective mutism in the forest because it is the place I can just be. I need to be alone and catch the wildfire at heart out in the woods where amber resin deposits reside behind ridged bark that captured flies Cretaceous years before.
I am a fisherman with a boat, a fishing rod, a trident, and a hollowed book of worms lost out at sea battling Poseidon’s shipwrecking winds. I catch words with a hook. I reel them toward me. Sometimes they fight and flail to try to remain an enigma and other times they appear before me as if parachuted into my frail palms underwater. I meticulously unlatch the curved hook from the scaly mouth and place my catch in a bucket.
That bucket is delivered to the kitchen where gourmet is gutted and canvassed into a steam pot as gumbo mixed with a splash of my gusto. There’s a gumball barreling through a circular swirl maze to reach its destination. This is the idea reaching the vibration doorway in my hand. I chew on this. My hand holds an expression utensil and engraves my signature as I prepare every dish. I can never stop being this.
The pen is held firmly in my left hand. After awhile it seems as if it is floating weightless between my fingers. The clamminess settles imprinted in the pen’s body forever. I search endlessly for the words falling deeper into my cortex. I am puzzling over the answers to life. I desire to answer man’s essential questions through themes and concepts. The pen is the recorder and I am in God’s image the spectacle tackling pertinent topics, manifestos, and dissertations.
Together we are a team or rather this pen is a significant prop, a given instrument on my way to absolution. That may be a bit exaggerated. Absolution may not matter. I am happy I am breathing, that I am here on this slowly decaying and marveling sphere. I burn for the alive. This grandiose calamity of joy settles in my heart and wells from the habit I have consciously instilled.
I daily pool the blood from my wrist veins and it is rewarding me tenfold every time I keep my commitment. The struggle is fading because I have tapped into the ocean of ideas and have refused to let the wiles and plight of the world to steal away my creativity. I will breed new leaders with my words strung intricate. I am working on being a leader. Maybe not a powerful politician but someone who has a positive influence on those around him or who know him. If you want respect you must delve yourself wholeheartedly into your work. If you expect respect from the get-go then it becomes all about your ego.
This writing device is my paintbrush and my paper is the easel upon which the design is imprinted. it is my trough, my hammer, my pistol, my samurai katana, my shirasaya, my flag of white, my death sickle, my trident, my legendary sword of truth. I prefer to write in the morning. And each time I do the sun is busy rising another day. The golden morning light casts on my slight olive complexion. In an instant that light can dissipate, disappear and be replaced with gray or with dark. It’s funny how in that moment as it vanishes, the disruption of it can send my body into a two-minute convulsive frustration.
Many moments are beautiful, but it reminds you how things here are simply temporary. Nothing is permanent. Nothing is bad. Nothing is good. Few things in life are constant and we should cherish all these moments and we should watch for them so we remember not to let them pass by unnoticed. We do not have notice for the moment when our lease is void.
Embarking on a two mile stretch of Ohio Canal NOT in shambles.
Blank pages are like futures made into memories yet to be grasped. An eternity of doors, unfolding words pass through the air with winking eyes. Let us untie our masks. Taper between lines, the riddles straightened. Constantly search for what most do not search. We shovel sand for towns buried in Egypt. If I keep the best moment it would be the first second the third eye steadily captures the words; the moment when we knew one drop could make an ocean.
My best friends cousin has been arrested in Dubai, after being raped: she was arrest because she had ‘sex’ before marriage, I’ve seen tumblr do this before and i know that you are all kind enough to sign it! She needs 100,000 signatures. Please, please, help!
guys, she’s going to prison because she was raped. please take 10 seconds of your time to sign the petition.