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…

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.

I Cant remember… at the moment

There is a memory I have, I can’t recall at the moment, but I’m not entirely sure it’s mine. I was replaying it in my mind a while ago and while I was I thought to myself, ‘what is this? It can’t be mine, I don’t remember that.’ It was very vivid, even if I can’t recall it now, maybe latter. It comes to me at random times, I’ll be sitting there and this memory will assault me, just not now. No memory ever comes on demand it seems, they have their own agenda. It’s like trying to catch motes of light reflecting dust. Memories… They just float like bits of brightly colored flotsam and jetsam; they sway-seesaw to the ground like autum leaves. Beautifully Uncatchable.

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…

my Muse is Bipolar

It comes sometimes, inspiration, in fits and spurts, short starts and abrupt ends. Other times it flows like a raging river and must be dammed or run out of control. My muse is bipolar; and just like that the faucet is turned and the flow of words stop.
Let me catch these last few drops
before they swirl away uncaught
to join the main stream
which is thought.