What is writing but a voice in a head,
unless read aloud?
Is it possible to say aloud what would be written without it being written down?
Talking, is it different then words I type...
Are the words I type different than spoken word?
Why would they be different if they stem from the same stem,
of a brain.
But they are different.



What more is written word
than an old old man talking slowly in order to be heard,
but ignored for taking time.
Is language written down an eddy spinning
out of pace with the rest of the river?
******* one in, immersing.

Does one have to prove themselves through their works in order to be listened to?

How many people are ignored because of a lack of productivity, because of a lack of time to be productive?

Money gives time to be taken,
with time one can produce and then be listened to,
no matter how slowly they talk.

Anyone can be listened to,
now.
just as long as they talk quickly,
nonsense may be but time lost none will see,
or take notice,
of something intelligent to say
if spoken slowly with eloquent ease.

I swear I am calm. Look at that, I depressed a button thats been
neglected for so long. Again you see I am quaking not faking my
thoughts are overtaking my waking position, quarrelsome indeed
towards entering the state that I need. To function. Normally.
Please, I'm holding back, can't you tell? A metaphor of a dam would
do me well, of course it's not solid the pressure is building, of
course it's not stone it's made out of soothing all the things that I
find in my mind would it surprise you to know that they'd fit on a
dime? My own little who ville on a metal map scape. It's fine it's fun
it's quite the scene. Would you stay for awhile and meet my people
that follow the laws loyally with no question of doubt because they
are enlightened, perfection, plato lives there and he see's all their
forms if you entered would it all would you try and conform? Fit in
with perfection even if your meat makes you mad, your soul steals
away and it becomes possible to play along the slightly raised ridges
found on the side of a dime and you'll never ever have to question
what occurs when you die. You won't know what occurs but let me
tell you in the following words it won't matter to you as a soul
singing songs along with millions of mimes that tend to live on my
dimes because fears do not exist in communities so small learn from
this please come one come all, the irony is if more come it will fall
and collapse into everything, rioting and pain, and then we'll think
back in wonderment, what did we gain? I don't know at least we
tried, that's the most I can say, the sun will still rise but we'll be
lucky to find peace as it exists across loose change in a mist where
it's more illusive and special and harder to find, we won't not never
it will remain unfound unless we settle and sit in a square and
slowly think of something profound: build a new community there
and slowly weigh the pros and the nouns would we risk it,
revealing us out loud to the world because you see in close circles
we'll work and we'll smile without fears of continuing this course of
denial, perfection is possible if sacrifices are made but our meat is
too silly to play along in that game so more people flood in and
bring disease and the pain so we sigh and trudge on with only hope
to our name we just remember to never give in, we have what we
need to continue to live.

holy cow, words my god they can be arranged in ways that are musical and metaphorical and melodic yet menacing or mechanical, mean and maniacal.

WORDS GAH! Letters can be like musical notes and different arrangements are different chords, CHORDS CAN BE WORDS! chord progressions=sentences! There's common ones. Like C G Am F. Translated. You are so beautiful. wow so inspired. HOWEVER! one can use the same chords in different fashions to create different songs with totally different meanings LADLKJNF!
you are beautiful, so
are you so beautiful
so you are beautiful
beautiful, so are you
so beautiful, are you?
you beautiful? so are...
I believe this is clear, cleave me if mistaken but please if anything departure is unreason able would you? don't ever, you are beautiful, so beautiful.

WORDS HolY FARCE! not fake or an art satirical to the smart can you please stop shopping at wal mart?

HOLY ENGLISH! so many words i do not know how will I learn to cope with potential nope unavailable but I know I'm granted unalienable rights in my sights if I might just quote the constitution and relieve my blank poor brain of all destitution so I can keep my head high and wear a grin with pride if you wish to die i'll have to pry into your soul and save you, gotta keep you whole because without you there's one less that one may bless and all the folks will miss you oh what a mess so please I confess I need people here to read these rants and turn them into chants to sway some opinion to create a bunch of minions necessary for a change I can believe in but for that to happen i'll have to go to bed and learn to sleep in.

WOW WORD LOVE WORLD OF WORDS!

Blasphemy,
a forced wit to write is no better than fights on a playground, adolescents, unbearable, fruitless, all around useless,
success can’t be conjured it must flow from the soul,
frustrated tossing and turning and thinking, in bed,
thoughts are racing some trivial, most not,
in my present… yesterday’s future,
using this logic I am calmed and collected,
now knowing these feelings will pass, all of them will pass, with time they will pass, with a pen they will fall out, splat, creating images between lines,
the best part being mine all mine,
knowing I will sleep, I do, oh how I do.
and my dreams.
are an acquired taste.

My story is not over
I am my moment
a mosquito trapped in amber
perfectly preserved
unfulfilled, trapped.
And my story… not finished
more plot has yet to come

You see me
even now you’re writing me
my story will shine
not now
I am still trapped in amber
my story will not end
if you do not finish,
my story is premature
my story cut short, my story frozen, as am I
why do you make me think
when my story is over, finish me,
fulfill me
make me whole.

This city I live with.
4th floor open window,
Hear the night.
Man shouting, dogs bark
Reverberating off red brick walls.
Engine roars,
Tires scream across tired asphalt.

Eyes open wide.
Lights lighting room
Hand sliding against paper and pen stitching wounds.
Scratching along
Scratching a decade

Is this bigger than myself.
Am I a messenger translating thoughts of prose full of purpose.
am I creating characters or am I made through them.
Am I worshipped as a god.
or smitten as a god, do they know me or believe in me.
have faith.
or suspicions…

Tell me shape shifter, maker of worlds where you have been,
how do you keep up, make up, and reign peace over people.
How do you make them work
they know jobs, they fill tasks
how do I make mine do that?
while bearing to look at me.