It is hard to speak about
what you want to speak about
when all you do is speak about
the way you’d speak about

what you want to speak about.
Things get worse then when you try
to speak about the way you'd like to
speak about these things you hold so dear

that you can't help but speak about them,
to the point you mean to speak about
the way you'd love to speak about them.
But is unbearable when after so long

of trying everything to explain the how,
you fall out of love with what you wanted
to speak so madly about, and all is left
are the ghosts of departed quantities of genius,

the maddening silence after your great idea is gone,
that cigarette ash flake floating in the afternoon,
so graciously convinced of being smoke,
perhaps even a cloud.

You can't see how many minds
have exploded due to
it does not matter now what amazing  
methapataphorical event,
and you will never know,
no matter what blew shattered
disbanded your mind
because after the explosions
the pieces started traveling
at light speed away from you until,
nearly infinite Doppler Effects afterwards,
all you can see from where you stand is
infraredness, for which you'd need
of course, special equipment.
But then again, your mind had exploded,
so it would be of little use for you
on your present situation.
                  Unless,
you are yourself some kind
of Schrödinger's cat person,
and can enjoy
some superposition state,
because till this point
no one but you has found out about
your mind explosion.
Or maybe not just yet.

__________
The blank page is a loaded gun, dangerous,
full of beauty's entropy and combinatory dreams.
It's open source ethos, fidgeting with splendor,
with that momentum white of the sea at morning.
It's not a desert, for whoever's sake, is not a cliff,
neither where your mind goes make snow angel ideas,
nor a mute inbox that you keep refreshing:
The mind is just filled with horror for the void
when there's nothing else.
The blank page is a loaded gun,
a uranium mine field waiting for a chain reaction,
where the feelings will collapse upon themselves
and hurt the reader       by wounding the page,
the ink bled a testament to the violence
of the rapture always waiting to be born.