Perhaps it’s best to not make sense,
but instead trust and accept.

Take it step by step
Without looking for an end.

Life is a process;

You will be led
To where you are destined.

I write because it feels right
in the process of writing
I am creating something

the Divine spark lives in me
and comes to life in the act of creation

even during my darkest suicidal hours,
I could not abandon poetry and art.
the act of creating and destroying
saved me

the process of writing is like my life
I build and destroy,
and in the process
try to grow from the experience

So much to process.
Process, process, process,
Process, process, process,
Process, process, process,
Until sleep switches off my endless conveyor belt of over-analyzation.

Tonight I'll precisely pick apart things that have no business being harnessed
Until perfect rest precludes my process-a-palooza.

**** this brain.
And **** the thoughts that float through it, wispy, adrift.
Aimless, with no hope of reaching the other side, the action side.

I know exactly what's going to happen.
And yet, still, I will repeat this process.

The definition of insanity comes to mind.
Am I insane?
Those who do what they've always done will get what they've always gotten.
So some frustration is coming down the pipeline, undoubtedly.

But here I am.

Keeping myself awake while my little mind powers through minutes and seconds and hours of data
Burning itself out completely
And yet accomplishing nothing.

Moral of the story?
To overthink is to run a car for hours with no one driving it,
To study vigorously and then not take the test,
To hedge your bets,
To run on a treadmill,
To fight an uphill battle,
To enter into a no-win scenario on purpose.

To analyze too much is to work the muscles of your sanity to the point of tearing. **** it, **** it all. This crucible of introspection, I hate it.

It's all thinking, and no doing.
What kind of world would we have built on thought? Deceptive, static and imprisoned thought, in and of itself?

The procession marches on through the early morning hours,
Until sleep rescues me from this malicious rabble of thoughts
I cringe at their noise, I grow weak from the weight of such an immense amount of perception  

My mind shifts and sifts through it all
Until I finally lose consciousness.

A poem's process
take a large heaping
helping
of
pain
balance
and
measure
like counting precious treasure
then in the
mix
add some
madness tricked
maybe a pinch
of
love
sometimes
add faith from above
a drop of blood
a tear or two
bake in your mind
and
simmer in your heart
it's
a poem's start

I somehow enjoy the pain
Of countless needle ******
Like I love to watch the rain
As it falls on my window and sticks
The outcome worth the process
So much more than I can express

A black ball point pen.
A crumpled pad.
Words rolled from
A hand of birth
Like a pair of die,
Aware of why,
And what and such and such.

I have adrenaline cheeks,
They rush and blush.
Dukkha's bulging bullet eyes
Are at times too much to duck duck
Goose mother comes to
To try my luck for a dollar buck.

In disappointment hear me holler "****!"
Followed by "god ******!"
If Chuck is stuck,
Why won't he cram it?
I must be Chuck,
Because I don't understand it.

Originally written 1/14/11
Revised 10/20/14

(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith

I will never understand artists.

They move, beholden to the dictates of an unseen master, in ways that I can't fathom.

They produce works which I could not create, do so for a cost that I wouldn't pay, and roll with highs that I can't imagine.

All in all, I know they are different. That's easy to say now, but much harder to say when you are with an artist.

Artists are attractive. Free, confident, focused, and talented: what's not to love? If an artist takes you as their muse, you become part of the process, which at first seems amazing.

You get to be part of the creation of something bigger than yourself! Then, you realize that you are the emotional equivalent of a paintbrush for the artist; a disposable tool. That makes the whole thing seem less amazing.

Artists are devoted to their art, that's what makes them special. It's also what makes you less than special to them. You can be around when it helps the process, but make no mistake, when it doesn't help the process, you are out.

Commitment to an artist is nothing in comparison to craft. They have to produce; it's their life. So, really, I can't blame them (ok, I really mean that I can't blame her) for not behaving normally.

They never said they were normal. Why did I expect otherwise?

the fabric of reality
rests on the idea that
everything is nothing
and nothing is
what I've been
yearning for

interstellar or interstitial
irregular and irradiant

never too late
always significant
sometimes terrifying

just say yes

Process and Purge
a radical transformation
is upon us
open your Heart and
your Mind will follow

one day this body
will be a corpse
and that doesn't
frighten me
in the slightest

ordinary anxieties
lose their authority
and I am Alive
at last