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Click hereThis bastard spews forth
from mind to pen
from pen to page
'Its' parentage unstable
unstoppable yielding
product of the singular
'It' begs to be written
begs to be born
a creation of thought
mischievous misdeed
'Its' heritage apparent
nurture and nature
misery & suffering
struggling to find
a thing called hope
crawling across the page
spider like scrawl
something nasty creeps
revealing everything
insatiably & relentlessly
'It' tells the world
everything I do not
'It' sends my alter ego
flying into reality
too late to make it stop
'Its' there for waiting eyes
prancing naked carefree
obscene display of truth
'have you no shame.'
'It' knows no modesty
My brazen little bastard
lay with legs akimbo
steeped in wickedness
revealing too much
betraying me again
born of my impurities
from pen to the page
making sordid statements
read between the lines
all my inner truths will out.
It reminds me of Escher’s famous work which depicts the hand which depicts the hand which depicts… (There are only two but they are forever writing each other). Goes right to the heart of the duality of the creative process where you are spontaneous on one hand, yet self observing and critiquing at the same time.