There are those days, when I don’t wish to write prose. When as soon as I try to compose stately sentences that march cleanly across the page and down between the margins, the pen starts dancing to its own music, doing a jive, coming alive
to something else inside me.
Look, see,
it’s happening again,
this pen has a mind of its own,
thinks its home is center stage
makes no difference how
I might rage, It simply
continues.
(sigh)
So, we’ll try this again, but I can already feel coming bend, curve up ahead, instead of
straight line
I intended. Wanted to speak of what silence can wreak
how it is used to punish
a wish to express,
stop forward progress
sometimes
derailing it
altogether.
Guess I must give in, with slightly thinned grin,
let it have its way
as it means
to sway down
this page,
taking whatever stage
I afford it.
This tool has a lip
that constantly drips
over all well-inspired intentions,
refocusing route in a spouting
shout, mingled with whispers and cries
gone unmentioned.
But,
I’m in control
must cease it wholly through steel of will and determined
concentration. Only to find a distinct peace of mind, knowledge found in unbound truth that silence
has been silenced
again.
Posted by 1sojournal 