My Muse Attacks

My muse attacks!!    I cannot say no; She overwhelms me.
I loose control, I can’t think or do but what She tells.
Then She leaves me.  Drained, wanting more, needing more, thirsty
for more. She leaves me. A drained husk a parched man
crawling through the desert desperate for a drink.
Reaching, Grasping; hating the sand, the heat, the air, Life!
I curl up and cry. I am left empty,
a Vessel waiting the return of Usefulness; of the the glory of the Muse…

Absurdity

Don’t Be. …Absurd
It’s only… .a word

A musical rhythm
Set in time. …Pentameter
Or Anti-matter; rather.

It’s in your head
You dance, You dance
Round and Round
In bed.

It takes 2ow or One
It takes 4our or more
and lets not forget 3ree.

Don’t be absurd though.
Think it through now.
Is it false or Is it true?
Silly, you don’t even know:

What is it? it is                        is
Absurd? Absurd.

My Catharsis

If I write everyday It keeps demons at bay.

Livin’ a lie
Hopin’ to fly
Away
To a place called home

Information is God… …or is it Knowledge?
…Is Knowledge Wisdom or is Experience?
What is God.

Nervous Tick (le)

Bad Habit=Lewd Nun

Scribble Scribble
Seems the same. From up here.
Well down here. It’s better.

Ideas/Thoughts on paper are so much better than in the head; they don’t jumble about as much. On paper they reach a steady state, immobile & clean. A specimen that can be examined and corrected.

Inspired from an email received

If sane is the mundane
then I wish to stray
away
from all that is same,
status quo
oh no
I cant go
to your school
your church
it hurts
I see
outside the box
over the wall
you thought
you were the fox
you couldn’t trick me
I didn’t take your fall
back then
to what was said
before
I am insane
But
at least I’m not begging
at your door

Feel like… Writing.

I feel like writing; what I would write I don’t know but I fell the need to express… something. So here goes I am writing, spelling and actively thinking of the finger positions to type the proper arrangement of words. What I am not thinking of is what to write. I just type and the words flow from some nether region in my brain with unceasing clarity but not sense. I see the words come, a queue lining up to fall from my mind to the page. I watch them fall like golden snowflakes catching the phosphorescent rays of my screen before appearing therein. Stop. Pause. Let the queue rearrange itself, let the words get back in order, herd them back to their place… and the words keep coming, an inexhaustible supply, recycled and remade, new and old, unused and abused, a never ending supply line. Say what you say and say it well, don’t think of tomorrow for it wont come and think not on today for its all ready done and just look at the space your in and imagine…