“Where do you write? Is Ambiance Important? Do you have rituals or habits when you write?” My reply to this question is below.

Most of my writing is done in my den. In terms of “ambiance,” The space that I write in doesn’t have a lot of that, the ambience comes from within I suppose. The space that we create in is not so much that of the physical as it is of the spiritual, The room I write in has very little to do with it except that it houses my keyboard and printer. The “Room” is just another tool.

The so called ambiance comes to me in the form of my memory, of my visualizations of life, or the questions that I have regarding it. To rely in the physical space that one finds themselves in, to depend on that to create, or write what have you, I think is a dangerous crutch to lean on.

It is the mind set of the craftsperson, the poet, the artist the musician, to find the respite that lies within us all. It is those recollections, that creativity, that inner room where the true ambiance lies within our imaginations, a physical room really has nothing to do with it.

In terms of rituals, I would say that when I find a subject that sparks poetic creativity; I simply close my eyes and place my self in the scene, I attempt to use all my senses in bringing that space to life in my mind, the imagined smells and sounds, the colors, and textures… When I feel that I have absorbed those elements, I then begin the writing process. It is within the power of each of us to visualize our poetic worlds. Poetry for me is much more than meter and rhyme, it is much greater than stanza and verse. Poetry is the culmination of lives’ lived, lives’ remembered.

Poetry is the dream of higher possibilities; it is the culmination of the poet’s power to move individuals to inspiration. In doing so, the space that we create in makes little difference however, the space within us that allows us to share our gifts with the world is the best place to be, the grandest of rooms where creativity and caring abound.

I wander upon the pond of my sufferings.
I wander freely, misguided and wonder
Where these footsteps might lead.

Strange dots collide into infinite dots,
Then divide into answers shaped as knots.
They are paths I don't want to seek.

I dived too deep into this obscurity, too deep.
The weight of my inner world
Keeps crushing my feet.

They can't run any longer
For my heart beats too weak,
I don't intend to hide under,
Just need a place to sleep.

My soul craves for the silence of katharsis
And I can only dream of a deserted oasis,
When time was only a clear drop,
A time when I was me and you were you...

I should stop writing this, I should stop.
Can't deny my letters miss writng your name,
They miss you a lot.

Innocence was written on the warmth
Of our holding hands
And smiles embraced the air
Of our own molded lands.

I've lost myself
In this "fear-hate" game.
I've come to my end
In my mind's jungle,
There's no escape train.

Nightmares became too often real
In my awaken mornings rays,
Despite rainbows of sounds and joly colours,
Demented wounds and bruises never heal.

So here I am...
Thrown on this arsenic pond
My life ends here -
Death is born.

Don't blame me,
My beloved one.
You see
Miracles don't happen for me,
For the lost times I felt undone.

I shall find my sleep
In this lifeless area.
Between these scarlet whispers,
Between garments of memories
From the back of my cornea.

These are my last invalid words
To you...
I will be lost in my mistakes hue,
Forever lost, forever unwritten.

Im still gunna keep writing
Im sad as ****
But im gunna keep writing
My **** is small
But im gunna keep writing
Ive broke girl's heart
But im gunna keep writing
A girl broke my heart
But im gunna keep writing
Im failing every class
But im gunna keep writng
Im bitter as ****
But im gunna keep writing
I want to end my life
But im gunna keep writing
Nothing is going right
But im gunna keep writing
Im no better than someone else
But im gunna keep writing
****  me
But im gunna keep writing
My poetry *****
But im gunna keep writing
I wish i didnt feel like this
But im gunna keep writing
I wish my mom aborted me
But im gunna keep writing
Im ******* ****
But im gunna keep writing
Worst night of my life
But im gunna keep writing
Nothing might work out
But im gunna keep writing
I havent worked out
But im gunna keep writing
Little **** ****** me off
But im gunna keep writing
My mind is gone
But im gunna keep writing
The **** is coming soon
But im gunna keep writing
The gun is cocked
But im gunna keep writing
Im pulling the trigger

New day new **** the struggle continues
Fighting for change hoping to be understood
I've been good doing all I should
Not trying to rep anyone but myself
Taking pride in what I do feeling alive
Writng gets out my frustrations
Helps clear the madness make sense of confusion

here i sit
writing to you, my friend,
with my wrist slit.

ive finally done the deed
and a goodbye
is in much of need.

i didnt want to go
without a single goodbye
but i sat and pondered
as to who i should write to.

with the blood gushing
and thoughts slowing
your name came to mind
so now im writng and rushing.

i only have moments left
not that youd care
for you stole my heart in theft.

you had no intentions to give
it back without any wounds
so here i sit not wanting to live.

goodbye my old friend.

- a. m. b.

I was helping my
son with his homework
the other day.
For one of his assignments,
he had to write a
public service announcement.
He has been visited
by the muse
at an early age.
His goal is to publish
his first book by the
time he's 18.

It got me thinking about
my life as a writer,
and the young formative
years.
As a boy, I had a
broad imagination,
and much time alone.
I remember coming
up with plot lines in
my head, and then
writng little adventure stories.
My dad was a drama
teacher.
He directed four or
five plays a year.
I grew up watching
the classic plays,
and developing a love
for literature.

In Junior high,
I saw the power
of my gift.
I wasn't a popular
kid; somewhat of a
loner.
But one day in
English class, I wrote
a story about a
***** headed hamster,
with an underbite like
a French bulldog.
The other kids loved it.
They listened and laughed,
and applauded.
Words became my
new best friend.

I grew, and leaned on
writing through the
good times and the bad.
They were my warmth
In the long winters,
and my rain in
springtime.
Through the alcoholic
haze of much of
my adulthood,
writing kept me sane,
and it gave me
the will to keep
living when the
pain grew into
a beast of its own...

My son hands me
his paper, and it's
brilliant--it warns people
about the dangers
of cyber hackers, by
portraying the average
person surfing the net
as a lamb walking along
in the grass,
thinking life is grand just being
a sheep, when along
comes the wolf that pounces and
devours.
He finishes with,
"Don't let this happen to you.
Protect your computer and files
with such and such software."

He asked me if I thought
he could be a good writer.
I laughed, and and told him
that he already was.