Writing, constantly writing
Get it Down
Draw it Out
Feel the words as they Flow
or Grind
or Pulsate
Breathe them in
Allow them to just be for a while
Exhale them
Bleed them if necessary
Sometimes it’s so easy
They flow from brain to fingertips
Other times they have to be pulled out
Yanked
Ripped
Excavated
With a rope thick as my arm
A coil of dense wire
An impossibly heavy iron chain
Are those words inelegant?
Flawed?
Damaged somehow?
Or do those rough-hewn words hold their own poetry?
Different than the silky thoughts of their more manageable cousins
This business of poetry
It seems like a cheat
Just snippets of words
Punctuation optional
Just meaning, nothing more
Style be damned
Conventions? Not today
The writing is a pipeline
A conduit
A path
Sometimes paved
Usually not
Jarring
Jagged
Rugged
Decayed in places
Pristine in others
Sometimes flat, cool, peaceful
Effortless
Most times steep, rocky, even painful
Exhausting and all consuming
But in the end worth the toil
This place I go
Is sometimes Lonely
Sorrowful
Desolate and Deserted
Terrifying
Disturbing even
Usually, though, it’s just Quiet
This place where hopes, dreams, wishes, and fears all meet
Like his forest
With the path grown over
It still exists but it has been neglected
However, neglect has not harmed it
It has preserved it
Kept it Sacred
Kept out the trespassers who don’t understand
Who don’t respect the Sacred
Who can’t see or feel or know why it’s important
Are my thoughts preserved? My fears and hopes, are they Sacred?
Or are they stagnant?
Do they develop and grow and evolve?
Am I walking in circles revisiting the same tired worn places over and over?
Like tracing a scar that has healed long ago
Or am I breaking new ground?
And if it is new ground, is it leading me in the right direction?
How will I know?
How can I tell?
