I must admit.
I delete.
Almost everything. I wirte.
I punctuate. And separate.
As a certain way. Of skirting trust.
I let it be. And let it live. By killing off. What it once was.
But might this oft'. Be better than.
Deleting.
Every. Thing at. Once.
?
I'm sure I know my answer
when I run my mouth for days
and spin so many words around
in quite a stunning haze
of blurry and tremendous racquet-thunder
bolt of gazes
through the open doors of heaven
and my feet can't find
my way out tangled
forest anchors
of my mind
when
I
can't
punctuate
the finer thoughts so well
or half the times
I can't recall
in my own life
though out of stride
maybe blessings unrevealed
I still need a signal of the ending
of the odder grandeur times
just as a message in need of a dot
to keep.
Things. In. Line.
It seems. There is. Not a difference. And. I still. Must stab. My sentence.s. with oh. So many. Dots. But I. can't let. My self. Go. Enough. To say. This right. So I'll. Just say.
It seems I can only keep my balance, when I "don't know" what to say.
This is a true account. A while back I deleted all of my old writing and since it seems I can't let my words breathe.
I suppose the reading of this is to simulate how closterphobic yet wild my creative energy felt for the time coming back to this.
Definitely glad to be writing something I can let be it's own thing again.