Writing has come alive in me again.
I cannot stop it.
I cannot hold it.
I cannot tame it.
A wolf running towards all the sheep.
I heard a Man in a coffee shop one day say
that a Man escaped from The Grim Reaper
and fell for Insanity.
He was either talking about Women or
drugs. Two elements that have an
uncanny resemblance.
Women, addictive as they are.
Drugs hallucinating as they should.
The Two combined together.
A deadly time bomb.
I cannot say it.
I cannot prove it.
I cannot argue about it.
It just happens and flows through
one’s hands.
I cannot defy it.
It’s just there.
Waiting to be released and
as a bird learns to fly
writing also grows wings
and just floats through the sky.
Women, Drugs.
There is a flip side to this coin.

Women.
Creatures made of Fire and Stone.
Cold. Sometimes raging about
silly things
such as why you left early
and why didn’t you pay the tab
and why you didn’t call me.
Women, Man, like a Woman like a Man
we are all the same, I think.
Except when it comes to silly things
such as reading while talking to her
on the phone. How I’m not listening
to the story about her friend who’s
boyfriend told her that he’s going
to the military.
Women.
Despite all the jokes and laughs,
she’ll still think you’re not funny
enough or not tall enough
or not fit enough for her tastes.
Still, women are creatures
of Fire and Stone.
Women make us Men feel
do or think about dilemmas
about paradoxes that
we would otherwise ignore.
Women make a Man fall on his knees
mopping the floor with them along.
Women make Men who they are, today.
Women have the kind of power to bend
the rules and twist reality to a point
where a Man sees what a Woman
decides for him to see.
Women are Truth in motion.

There might be a moon tonight,
and I might once again see you.
The sun is fading away, slowly but surely.
People are racing from Work to Home,
sometimes vice-versa.
It depends on the kind of Work
they do.
It depends.
Home.
Home.
Do I deserve one tonight?
Will you be my Home?
I asked the moon, and she replied
It depends.
I saw you today.
You were beautiful.
A silver circle in the sky.
Clouds were blocking my view
from Time to Time, but I waited
for them to move along and race
to wherever they were going.
Time.
Time.
The sun will surely rise again
in the morning, and you’ll be gone
to wherever you go each morning.
Work, Home, or another person’s sky?

Eve wrote to the Devil and I
wrote to Eve.
I guess the only time we wrote
to each
other was when I cursed
her while sitting on the bathroom
floor.
I wrote to tell Eve
that I never loved her
that the only reason I bit
the apple was because
she had brought it.
I wrote to Eve, and Eve
wrote to the Devil.
I guess the only time
we wrote to each other was
when I wrote to tell her to bring
my **** back. The jackets
my grandpa's watch, and even
the necklace.
She wrote back.
"I'll get your things,
we ought to meet down the middle."
She wrote to the Devil : " He is
gone, now, you take his place..."
I wrote to Eve
and Eve wrote to the Devil.
I guess the only time we wrote
to each other was
when I had the gun ******
in my mouth, I nearly did it, but
here I am. Still,
I wrote to Eve, and Eve, well,
she wrote to the Devil.

The story goes as it should.
The Man sits and the Woman looks
at him, face to face
glaring eyes looking
A fire burning
and a microwave singing blips.
I am heating some food, the Man says.
The Woman, still starring straight
into his eyes, weak he felt
fiddled with a gaze.
Stunned in half a second.
Such a weakling.
He brought the plate and put
it in front of her. She was
still silent to the point that
he thought she was done.
Over and long gone.
The Woman finally says
Your Muse is mine to give
and without it
you writing is hollow
empty, gray shells upon the sand.
Buried.
What do you think will happen
if it comes alive again, she asks.
The Man, not a word spoken
not a single phrase uttered
though he was always good
at speech.
She says : “you’ll have
a screaming thing in a coffin
in a cemetery, and the guard
will go crazy.”
I am crazy, and so are you,
the Man manages to utter.

It came gushing out of you
in the middle of the night
or in day light, time doesn't
matter to it.
It kept you up for most of it
awake, aloof and attentive
to your surroundings.
It dribbled out of your body
stemed from your soul, with
no warning, just as the winds do
just as the fires
eat the forests.
When you sat at your bed
listening to the summer crickets
and people laughing about
lazy topics such as the weather
or the women or the football
score, it was there, you just
don't notice.
It felt as it should, with no
explanation nor a regard for
what you, he or she thought.
It had its own rhythm and rhyme.
When it was at its best, it made
you happy, and the opposite
applies.
It stained your canvas and
littered your bedsheets.
One would argue that the cigarettes
were meant to keep one out of it.
I may have been talking
about Love, Writing or ***.
Whichever came close to your mind,
consider it the topic.