If we could observe no other organisms with wings
how much longer would it have taken us to achieve flight?

"Get immersed in your writing process until the world is gone."         -Stephen King

Writing starts out as an unforgiving act with a rude listener whose back is perpetually turned.  You feel his disinterest as your unconfined mind spews ideas into warped silence, trying to capture airy words still wet with flighted feeling, to strip them down, distort them into a surreal collage of unrehearsed meaning.  

It's a crusade against the self, really, where you push reality beyond the scope of eyes or ears until only your heart is listening.  Then, and only then, do the words materialize in your head, rapidly filling the mind's empty stadium. You become the spectator, the speaker, and the space. Poetic lines are the paste as ideas collaborate; you learn to stand in the cyclone, feeling a poem's tremendous energy, permitting the words to dictate their own dignity.  

They rush faster and faster as you press their loops and curves to the parchment witnessing their enchantment, the dizzying display of language tumbling under and over and through until you are left exhilarated, breathless, and undefeated again . . .
    that is until tomorrow comes.

Shadows glooming despondency uprightly,
Focusing a glim of shame and imposed abandoning.
''You look greatly molded in depression,
Your burden to me looks fancy.....''
That was a misery softened evil ****,
Piercing through into my shallow hollowed ears.  

Our rep casted her eyes aside,
Hoping to swift through a refreshing outlook.
The sight of it burdened her eyebrows,
Her lids stashed with a haulage of anger.

The wicked lingered in every set of a piece,
Even the tiny, lest we forget about the shiny.
It dug through and through to the cores of her bliss,
Sowing pandemonium, doubt and crime.
What crime?

Crimes of self doubt, crimes of hopelessness,
Cries for help, cries for a decent revitalizing wave.
Miles of cries led to crimes,
Cries of eyes for miles.

We are within the evil, daily
We brew it steadily.
Our hope, not a strategy; is that we live,
We survive this feeling.
We are 21.