Look at my writing

Everytime I see a blank page I feel a sense of guilt. I feel it is mocking me, mocking my inability to think of anything original, of anything new to write down. So I just write, nothing important, nothing special, but the page becomes full. Words march down the page in no particular rank or file, no order but there are enough of them to fill the blank. Then again I feel guilty for not writing something meaningful, for not trying to change the world. Somehow. For following my vanity and using the page as a mirror, look at my writing, isn’t it great, isn’t it different and special? I like it, why don’t you?

a thought on words

I really don’t have anything to say today, nothing profound or unheard of, nothing new or original. All I have is a desire to write and change, by way of speech and words, the status qou, the way things are. Words are the most powerful things in the world, they sway the minds of leaders and the led, they shape constitutions and plan military coups. Without words there would be no songs, no poems, no stories to inspire. Without words this would be a lifeless planet with no beauty, a mean petty world with no love and no mercy. Words are life to the spirit, the soul, the heart. They can tear down or build up, rebuild a broken ego or amour an existing one. Used properly they bring peace and a sense of rightness, improperly they bring strife and anger, then again these are just ways to use speech and words, not rightly or wrongly. Words are the cornerstone by which we live, by which we express our beliefs and ideas, without them we would be a billion islands lost in the sea of humanity.

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…

Shorts II

Nothin’ change huh?
Nothin’ much.
Its all the same huh?
To the touch.

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Sleep it off and give it up
Take it off and give it up
Make it up and make it right
Live your life on saturday nights

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take and take and take and give
what i want is to make amends
~
give and give and give and take
what i need is to validate

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I hate my Honesty, it makes me tell the truth.
I hate my Reality, it keeps me real.

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Its seems that famous quotes are always written and read the same way, with the same inflections and the same timing.

I would, If I could write.

If I could put Truth into poetry, I would. I would make each letter a small revelation and each word a proverb; each sentence would be read by readers around the world and each paragraph would make scholars and philosophers ponder for generations. But, but, the secret would be the punctuations, each  punctuation would signal change; each period or coma, each exclamation point or semicolon. Each mark would be a small revolution an uprising or coup. If I could I would write in such a way as to erase and rewrite the world. 

By and large, time and again

Poets on the whole
are largely ignored
mostly because their words
their words come forth
in jumbled rhyme
that ‘s ill timed
to meet the instant need
of the reader to be
satisfaction is demanded
and by & large its granted
but only if you squint
and with one eye see