I've mentioned before, of a poem I wrote, "50 reasons" how I was writting it out of the moment. Truth is, thats how I write. I've not the patients to write down one verse and think for days on end how it ends. I've only the will in me to let it all come free and natural.
Most people do drugs, or drink, or use sexual experiance to clear their minds and or to enhance them. Why? What work can one possibly submit that would be more theirs than the work they put forth out of their own clear serene mind?
That is me, that is my work. My own, never polluted by anything other than the momentary feeling. Though you may not see, the passion inside is always erupt within these.
Coming free from deadly need,
her voice beyond the grave.
The starry night lite bright in the night sky,
illuminates my soul.
Gracious am I tortured?
Or is the wanted hand delt freely?
She conjured my number days,
my number months,
my chosen years.
Yet change of mind struke soft in sight.
Where is the starry night fright?
Where is the pale moon love?
The mad way lust?
Where is the tribulation within my mothers womb?
Contained within this mad man, he is thin,
His brian so clout with clouds of wind.
Written words are written thin,
for his heart he shakes the word within.
To share the word,
the spread the word,
to know the word,
and to love the worst.
Dare he love what he dares?
Starry night, why so bright?
Was there even soft sound delight?
Carry me over the midnight moon,
if you please.
Sandman sleeps with certain dreams,
of she who marks his just misdeeds.
Makes him weep for destiny.
Calls on her men,
calls upon her withered thread.
To the hearts of many who share her bed,
to win the choice whats in their head.
Midnight starry sky,
with oceans drawn however high.
The destiny is chosen,
within him it is chosen.
To claim his prize in the starry night.
To swim along his held foot pride.
Oh come along, you whispering hides.