P.O.E.M.

P.O.E.M.

Potentially
Obscure
Egaging
Mindlessness.

I write what is out of mind, but in my head.
I see what is out of sight, but in my vision.
I know what is unknown, but widely accepted.
I feel what is intangible, but writhing inside.

What is a poem, but a twisted paradime wrapped in the clutches of an obstenate thought, solitary in it's stance, yet with so many accomplices it can take over one's mind with a simple glance at the page?

A simple cluster of words, falling together ever so perfectly, with the undertone of passion, can do so much for the writer, and so lttle for the reader... or the opposite.

Gliding on the backs of fantasies with paper wings... potentially obscure... I see the flock, and in the rain, they are falling away as the ink, their blood, is being drained from the pages... engaging mindlessness.

What do we do, but write what we feel in the attempt of relation to one another? We see the pain, the struggle, the savagery, and we soak it up in every line we choose to account for. We may be poets, but we know we are far more, or far less than that.

What are words, but mere noises lost at the end of a breath?

What are thoughts, but something forgotten at the end of the day?

M.E.O.P.

My
Emotionally
Obsessed
Persona

Converse...

Polar...

Emotional opposite is what?

Numb?

If one can feel that one is numb... one is not numb at all.

Anarchy of words, ruling the writer with an iron pen...

The pen is mightier than the sword, after all.

But I believe in peace, after life... afterlife?

I digress... from what, this poem?

P.O.E.M.

M for Mindless.

Mindlessly thinking an incoherent thought that somehow finds it's way onto this page.

Wishful thinking to think thought could be contained... So I let loose.

Read, write, love(,) hate, hate(,) love... E.E. Cummings comes to mind...

Free spirit locked in the confines of flesh and words.

I see the walls. I'll climb them, although they reach to the ege of imagination... but I'll try. To live, or die... Shakespear comes to mind...

Iambic pentameter... confined to a spirit too heavy to lift, or maybe a plager...

I let go of the past to find my future begging at my feet to be brought about, and I see all my dreams coming false.

P.O.E.M.

Structured syllables, stable in stature, saturating simple sensations with the stuff of life.

That's all it really comes down to. Life. We live, breath, dream, and die. This is why we write.

This is why we write.

Life has everything to offer, and everything to take away when it leaves us tired and old.

Everything we have written, every story, every P.O.E.M. is about life. We see the intricacies of this devine spectacular.

We see them, and this is why we write.

This is why we write.

This is why we write.