Writing and its traumatizing tumult

Writing is the most liberating facet one can endeavor, but its path is a treacherous tumult, ironically binding you to words in a wedlock fashion. Your soil and clay mind becomes muddied and furrowed, awaiting the seeds of revelation to begin to grow. Sometimes this burgeoning event takes a lifetime to commence. Your freedom lies not in the release as many know freedom, but in the pernicious bondage and attachment to perfection of thought one becomes accustomed to daily as a blossoming finite being.

My mission statement

writing for the sole sake of writing doesn't necessarily help anybody. When you write with a purpose, a vision, that's when you allow words to take root in change

If left to ferment these words invert and dement, becoming inert, a hand never leant to the leaning.

clenching toes

writhing. bashing their

brittle faces against my own. your

mouth yielding a

satisfactory O.

syllable chiseled and etched

to that plasterofparis face.

-we were eager to plunge

into the visceral, (but)

ashamed to face the rational.

our plight was sensation.

where

we ate rotten

no matter how

putrid it tasted

Port Au Prince

Along the horizon of

Port Au Prince,

clouds of soot blanket

every

sodden face like gray snow.

Twinkling beneath

curtains of smoky night,

squalor swallows the

city in it’s chimney,

a pyre for the poor.

Moon

I love the moon. I sometimes suspect her to be plotting against me. I picture her as a demure young women.

Sometimes
at night,
if you gaze upon
the moon
just right, you
may see her
trembling.
Not from the whisper
of distant death, or
the calloused cold
from suspending night,
but from her blemishes,
those silent craters
entrenched in her varnished
complexion. She shivers
in her own tremulous
timidity, Awaiting
daylight to wash
away her pallid face, and
set her sister sun aglow.

Volute

dedicated to the lukewarm

Dedicated to the lukewarm

I verily believe
you are a volute,
convoluted in a sense,
otherwise you are incensed
with a sense of precedence,
but what mere mediocrity
do you stem your roots within?
Cause the long tendrils of life
tickle the suns father,
the earth's mother
and our predecessor's soul.
Tepidity is vile in a sense
hypnotic, fog like and dense.
We are meant to be burning beacons,
the inextinguishable flames
combined to scorch safety nets
away into night's wet eye

Moon floating atop

the black pond of sky

where is your ring?

Your nimble fingers

are lithe, but a wisp

of cloud to cover

your eyes will

shield those

luminous beams

from sultry day,

whose blisters still

torment your

ravished complexion.

I am a vagabond of

sleep, whose weary eyes

cannot contain all that

light has to sustain.