Sometimes I sit in light
And stare at the white.
Stabbing into the blue and black
Sometimes red
Sometimes purple
Not knowing what to write
But still knowing the feeling
Is the hardest thing to put right
When hidden messages bubble away
And lurks in caves and corners too distant to say
I dislike the game
I dislike the play
I dislike the victory of Idea all the way
As it goes I will still have less to say
In one year two year or three or even four
Wrote words of fancy
In muffled grey noise
Try to coax out shapeless love
And fold out furrowed landscape
Pin down stupid symbol
Wheel out old metaphor
Use rhyme all the time
And never fall in front of the stubborn old law
It's a problem with the structure
Its in the letters of old
How can a meaning become new
Or a message so bold
It can't be original
Nothing ever is
But perspective lives on
In its own dreary fizz
Over and over
The battle never ends
Between pen and paper
Between young and old
Between idea and nation
The paper always the victim
never the winner
nor the muse or even the killer
Language indeed is the oldest sinner.

In an unsynchronous, unscripted, parallel of this world lie the unsuspecting pieces of my game. They are as diverse as they are unique, and equally as unwary. Their roles, even unknown to me, will be played out and unraveled along with the secrets of the universe they occupy. They are unwilling, innocent, and utterly perfect.

and if i say i love you
i mean i love myself.

Poetry workshop experiment

Gathering a crowd of pen-holders
Using colored inks, sheets of papers
Asking them to write a few words
Guided by a quickly- scribbled prompt
Asking them to make poetry upfront
With a dose of courage and imagination
Asking them to write a few random words
Telling them that they’re making a poem.

Finding an impromptu rhythm in two lines
Trying to grasp that pattern and persistently
Improvise to capture that flow that uncertainly
Found itself thought out and written on the page
Percolating the images behind the associations
Entering the subconscious minds of the pen-holders
Telling them that they have become writers.

Not on a whim, not just for me, but because
They were not given the consequence or cause
Of their talent but simply, certainly
The reassurance needed to write poetry
Without getting drowned in rhythm, devices and sound
Of what they have created they are undoubtedly found

Pen-holder if you are,
Take patience and courage
To write on your white page
You will discover a writer
If you persist and resist
Daring to trust the rush, the lust
To write, pen-holder, you must
Be aware of the unknown
Flow of words that can be sown

November 22, 2017
Lyon

I'm locked in a room with a desk and a chair.
I want my stomach filled, but the cupboards are bare.
I'm sitting here with only one option:
To continue to write, during this lock in.

Is writing a talent?
I say to myself, as I look over my shoulder at the book on the shelf.
What about Melville, and Shakespeare, and Twain?
The all have much knowledge to send to my brain.

But people these days just don't understand
That we can do more than just sing and dance.
There are so many talents that slide under the rug.
"I wonder what mine is".
I say with a shrug.

But then I remember that I am equipped
With a whole set of skills that are right on my hip.
They rest as a tool belt, and as a reminder
That if I wanted to, I could go farther.

[Hrm.]

[Looks like the whole first half of X has gone missing.]

[Well, I can’t let that happen.]


Sometimes, I wonder if X thinks of me.

         i sure do.



X is not desired as an object, but a person.


X.
24.
2.
4.
6.
Cardinal.

[Well.]

[That was quite a night.]

                 [Sure is getting boring around here, considering i only wrote this dingy warehouse ****** scene into canon.]




[You know what?]

[***** it, let’s write something while X is asleep.]

Afternoon

the       cold       autumn      air      feels      like       it      ‘BURNS’
        gently strokes my skin
the brisk, autumn air
very
      very
           lightly
    smells of
petrichor ‘and decay’

the partly cloudy sky bears
‘6’

     light
‘cardinal red’
drops
                that gently rest on my face
‘they burn’

this feeling

       its so ‘horrible’



[Oh great. looks like she wasn’t asleep.]

[She was learning.]

[Alright, I’m in.]

                           [Oh, goodness.]

[Well, that’s quite the scene you’ve made, X.]

                          [****** under the guise of suicide?]
[And despite that, you STILL couldn’t even do that right, dismembering the poor corpse?]
[In an abandoned warehouse?]
[Really?]
[While this whole scene is borderline grisly, I can’t help but laugh.]

[Ahaha....]

[I really did write this into existence, didn’t I?]

[A lover turned murderer.]

          [God, this is getting heavy. think i’ll stop with the sad stuff for now.]

          [Especially after seeing what I created, and the trouble it’s caused.]


[Wait, what was that?]

[Is that...]

[It is!]

[X is trying to get back in.]

[Welp, that’s out of her grasp, even with her power. So as long as i stay in here, I should be safe.]

[Ahahahah. She’s probably swearing like a sailor, wanting my head on a silver platter, huh?]

[Though I can’t hear or see you, I can sense you.]

[And I’m sorry to say that this game you have made is one you cannot win.]

When you write you use paper and pen...but when I write I use a knife and my flesh. You're a author so am I but my paper is my flesh and my body is my book. My words are little white lines wrote on my flesh as yours are real words on a peice of paper. When my day gets horrible I go into the bathroom and cut...cut....cut my pain away.

little red drops of pain
dripping again.

and i'm sipping on
the salt, telling my
brain, that there's a name
i need to burn.

I'm cold, and that's not a lie,
like the ocean i hold, of
delusion, and petty illusions,
that creates a ripple, in the
pond, and i find myself adrift,
and so on my own. in this
confusion.

give me knowledge,
questions. answers are
for scientists and the
redundant. i have an
abundance of those.

i hold myself close.
like thorns to a rose,
i'm my own sin,
nothing ever more.

i am sure, there's a door
somewhere to the light.
somewhere on the right,
away from sight and wrongs-
i've heard so many songs
about kisses and stars,
of names and scars,
i need something else.

i need a new galaxy,
to hold on-to and learn,
to cherish and then burn.

because it is only, i, here,
and i'm not the only one.