I used to start stories
For no one.

There was just the voice
And then another voice
And then the scene
Around their

Conversation.

I used to see
The sea
And never question
My sight, definitions or
Senses.

They were mine and **** all
Who said otherwise.

The blasphemy of creativity
Is the manipulation
Of inspiration fueled by the intention

Of another's sight or recognition.

A tree is indifferent to man's awe,
Yet they feel it.

A rock is heavy, it is cold,
In a person's hand
Of no will other than nature's.

A butterflies wings beauty
Stands unquestioned
Solely because they do not ask
To be recognized.

Something happened to me along the way.
I can't say what it was or is but,
It did.

Acceptance, weighed down by
Expectations
Is nothing but loose dirt
Over a still breathing body.

Yes, we are farmers,
Cattleman of controversy
Humor and drama but,
A capitalists time is not
An artist's time.

There are no quarters here.

There is only majesty.

There is only God or lack thereof.

There is only Us.