had a dream
red sun rises
old west feeling
low brim hat
eye, locked
m22
whiskey, no gin
oak (dark wood?) table
or wine?
i don't know enough about it
rust, ****** hair, beard
writing
parchment
window pane
light-natural-through the
window pains
cloths
fine fabrics
fine point pens
old poems
about old feelings
falling out
of notebooks
i should still
be
writing in

What makes a reader?

What makes a writer?

What compels anyone to the love of language?

Why do we not sing?

Why do we not play?

Why do we not paint?

What leads us to be so loyal to our craft?

There is a man who seeks new methods of relaxation, a man who can so easily slip into another man’s life.  There is a man who is enthralled by the mere re-telling of high tales.  A man who is quite an observer. A man who is logical (in one sense or another) and observes his plate well.  A man whom rests his faith on an influence and the good faith of escape.  A man who rests in the lines of paper, whether they be marked by blue or red ink.

He stood up,

With a vigor comparable to that of a bear.

In a rush, blood began to flood his veins.

They pulsated, and wound his fist back to a tightly-coiled projectile.

And eventually when the sun came to its final moment, he understood.  Long after his body will rot, his pen will continue to spill ink.  Long after he dies, people will continue to live.  Long after humans die, things will continue to die.  What could mean more than that?

I found myself

Drifting into space,

Filling empty glass jars

With bountiful lace.

Yet I lacked that confidence,

To give my words prominence

And broke

A once solid promise.

I threw my pen straight to the ground,

For a stick of lead I’d found.

Tried to write-

Then set it down.

Held back a severe frown.

What led me to this stick of grey?

I could not rightly tell or say!

Perhaps an air of strong regret,

A devilish mistake I could not let,

Stain my page,

Contain my rage,

Or throw the sheet over my cage.

Rebellion is a task because there are a number of forces to overcome.

The first being the saturation of the grid and the reasonable desire to succeed against these odds, that in turn make this lifestyle difficult to achieve.
-- The realization of the powers that hold our government with the capability to destroy the very genetic code of human beings.

Fed by extreme structure until life outside the system is illegal.  

Second: the curse of pattern recognition and the grand achievement of neurolinguistics;
The systematic and biological inclement of philanthropist action
taken to assert an advertisement is within itself a mechanism
to wash true passion for life on this earth.

the day, rots my skin away
washes me bones
bleaches me straight
to white again
so i can fall to black
back again

chronic
like the lifeline
i keep trying to cut

point blank range
engage
shoot me down
burn this page

keep coming, keep going
you're holding me back
while you complain to your friends
about all he lacks

can't you see that your savage?
though you may call it 'normal'
presents and praise
are not arousal

let friendship surpass interest
and extend outward with growth
your life is not a picture,
it is a sacred oath:

fear my love,
no- it doesn't lack feeling
but it comes with a treasure
a single meaning.

Do not fear
the contamination
of your captivity-
survive the encompassing mind.

Or writh
and reel
that you cannot feel-
cannot keep up with me

Turn the wheel
like me

******* and the glasses
Of wine. Wasting their *******
time. In what they thought
was Love.

Getting started can be the hardest part.  
How hard is it to accept-
That the craft you so need can feel at times, so harsh?
Sitting down to an instrument
Piano or paper.

The Musicians tones are angered,
Though the notes sweet.
Hear the aggravation of fumbling fingers,
Witness the strength of the mountain.

Consuming light, burning heavy
And white; What will you write today?
See the light to to your eyes,
Witness the heat of the sun.