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Trying to catch a slice of thought process;
Like capturing lightening in a jar
Only to smell it's exhumes.
It's a blessed freedom, to release
an experience; an imitation of the world,
or an imitation of how others wrote and expressed
the world, and at constant conflict to lose it's voice.
It can be enjoyably difficult (the best hobbies
usually are) or flow smooth as blood thru vein.
Pulling blood from a stone and unexpectedly
heaving rainbowy rainwater can be it's own virtue--
An idea caught half undeveloped
Only to shed cocoon to join the white blankness
And forever tarnish it's history--
A gorgeous priveledge in it's constricted freedom
(As is existence,although we're too modest to admit it)
Writing is a piece of you and you belong to the human race,
and doubleedged a sword as that certitude is,
Writing is a piece of us left to the world.
Writing is forever
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