Dead, it’s dead.
Crafted pale, rough paper,
And it’s dead.
A new born yet immobile,
A silent structure.

Dead, but it has a head.
Slightly curved, pinched cheeks,
But it’s dead.
Wide wings yet tiny bodice,
An art carrying Alice.

Dead, and it’s red.
****** winged, folded paper,
On all feathers it bled.
Imagination has it flying,
Leaving traces of men false hoping.

There's a small space
between the tip of a pen
and the fibers of notebook paper.
As it is with many truths,
that space cannot be seen.
Still, that small space is a universe
of holy ground where the miracle
of one’s soul is streamed
into the physical world
for all to see.

-Ron Gavalik

that's the end of the day
and again I take out the pen
I take out the paper
and again I write
I write about that beauty
that was today
I write about that beautiful
what my eyes saw today

that's the end of the day
that's the end of the day
I say to myself
and I look at the night starry sky
and write
and write
and only I write
with love
will share with everyone

01.07.18

Master, have mercy.
I am Master. I
Have no Master.

The planet
is atrocious.

I am It.

Planet Earth
is atrocious.

I am It.

Why is it so hard
to see
be yond peace?
Why is it so hard
to be
who you want?

The mind, secluded
in a prison rift
of copy paste
makes waste.

Where is my paper?
Where is my pen?
I write for me!
I repeat as if I
will soon
believe.
I write for me!
(logging on again)

The planet is horrid.
I am part of It.

Oh, Peace & War,
do we know it.

Yet with an audience,
my imagination
grows stagnant.

The once in abstract
gathers into form.

I did this misdeed.
A disservice.

Once a dreamer.
Now a journalist.

I used to write all my thoughts on loose papers and then throw them away

most people can exist like
a rubber ball;
floating, bobbing around in the water,
unaffected, intact.

i exist like
a paper boat;
floating fraily,
until I wither and sink.

Why do I write?
It’s not because I enjoy the
Pen on the paper, the faint
Smell of ink on my hands or
The sound of a page being torn
From a notebook.
It’s not because my fingers feel at
Home on the keyboard,
Because the clacking of the letters comforts me,
Or because the sight of a blank Google Doc
Excites me.
It’s not even because writing makes
Me happy, or that I find particular
Joy in it, inspiring me to release
My thoughts into the world.
No.
It’s because these thoughts are
Lions pacing in their cage,
Growling under their breath,
Wanting to be let out; no,
Needing to be released and free to
Roam wild, and not be restrained by
Any human contraption.
Same with my words; they refuse to
Stay trapped in my head, they must
Come out somehow.
It’s a need.
Why do I write?
You might as well ask,
Why do I breathe?