A river flows from the farmer's field into two streams.

From one stream a sidestream very occasionally trickles into the mouths of men but most of this stream becomes a rapidly rushing river flowing to factories who process and put it into pretty packages.  This stream flows into global supermarkets to be displayed and sold to man.

Another stream flows into the barn and into the mouths of animals owned by man.  That stream stays there dammed-up, but only for a while.  When the stream has fattened man's animals the animals flow into a stream that flows into the mouths of men.  

Need we discuss subsequent streams?

...Or the rivers inside the body of man?

It’s taken years to learn to rhyme, but now it’s time to break the chains, and I wonder ‘will my writing ever be the same?’.  With trepidation I will try to take the first step.  I lack the knowledge to predict success and wonder if this will be a mess.  I note that I am still not free from this seemingly ingrained habit of mine (I speak of rhyme).

Am I an addict, I ask my self?  Is my style of writing out of control?  Am I hooked like a ****** to the seduction of what seem to me to be siren-like sounds?  This is new!  I never knew that verse was worse than ****** or ******* ***, which I have been habituated to at times.  I never knew of the sultriness, the sensuality of poetry until, through imagining it’s end, I begin to sweat and shake, a little.

It is like a fix, and it is cheap.  No need to run around the streets to try to score.  If I stop and think, pen in hand, I can get some more.  

I fear I am still stuck in rhyme, though I have not checked yet.  Do I know what prose poetry is?   I am sure that Google does.  It may be time to stop and turn the tower on.

Sean Hunt  June 8 2016

I used to call myself an A-Romantic Poet, not wanting to include myself
In the group that I thought knelt at the altar of nature on two knees, writing only about the prettiness they see.

Am I a ‘Romantic’ poet, I ask myself out loud. The jury is out.

At first I thought they only wrote about flowers and hills and things outside the mind. Someone said I was wrong, that they can write about inner inspiration and movements of mind, as long as their internal spring of feeling is strong, intense and vibrant like tremors, geysers, erupting volcanoes, hailstorms, floods, and hurricane furies; or as still as a daffodil bending in the breeze.

I think perhaps I write like an already very strong and steady wind that sometimes surprises with an even stronger gust that defies expectations, and explanations, and demands attention, like an ignored diva.
  

Sean Hunt  May 13  2016

The coffee had settled to a temperature few could drink with any pleasure. The cursor impatiently blinked against the empty word document as he sat defeated by the previous one hundred attempts to write a single sentence.  He could not be a writer, he thought, writers do not spend hours in front of blank screens, staring blankly and drawing blanks. They are full of original stories which overflow from the gray matter of their brains, spilling out from the tips of their fingers as they beat atop plastic keys like Mozart realizing symphonies as he glide across the ivory teeth of a fortepiano. He was right; he was no writer, not yet. In this instance of doubt like Schrödinger’s cat, both men, the writer and the not-writer inhabited the same chair, the same space in time waiting to be woke by a single decision. If he decided he was not a writer than all potential realities collapse into one and the writer dies in that chair. I'm no Edward Lorenz and I don't know much about butterfly effects but what if this is one of those microscopic events that changes the initial conditions and forever alters the data set? What if a masterpiece is lost on a whim? I so badly want to communicate all of this to him but I can't, because I am remembering a distant memory of the moment I lost the man I was suppose to be.

She was wild like skinny dipping at midnight, stars watching overhead and falling in love with moonlight. The way it lay upon her skin made the ocean envious of her depths within and sometimes between us. She was my sister, not in blood but in orbit. A Venus to my Earth, forged from the same collapsing star and if the universe was in fact to be infinite then this moment would happen again, and again, and again an immeasurable number of times. I found comfort in this thought, knowing though our existence was meaningless, it was still full of feeling, and this feeling, right now, it insisted on existing forever.

I hear the drops of rain crash against the roof of my home and poetry started to run among my veins. Each raindrop that hits the streets outside my house is yearning for me to write about you. And I’ve told myself that I will never write a single sentence about the boy who left wet kisses around my collarbones then burned my skin with his saliva that contaminates white lies. I promised myself that I will never write one more word about the boy who I’ve spent time teaching endearing phrases from foreign words in hopes that he will say those phrases in thought of me but I stood around the corner as I listen to you say those phrases to someone else.

Now, look at me. Writing about you again. The booming of the raindrops on my roof empowers my hand to move and write your name in this paper. The petrichor intoxicating my brain as I lose control of myself. And here I am realizing that fact that I was born to write about people who never gave a single **** about me.

"People treat you like damaged goods
or ticking time bombs,
as if you’re some oddity
they would never understand
even when they don’t know a thing about you.
You are not some machine to be fixed.
You are not a problem.
You are not a burden.
You are a person
healing from the hurt,
finding warmth
under the rain
and wonder
under the stars.
And late at night
as you share
your stories
I feel like the Earth,
listening,
and remembering,
while you are the Moon,
and you are glowing."