Sometimes you want to write. Write down every
single thing that flips across your
temporal space. Whether its gibberish or the most intense feelings of your
heart, you just want to type it all down. Rip out every single thought out of
your skull and implant it somewhere else. Just get rid of the clutter that keep
playing tricks on you.
"All
writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives
there lies a mystery. Writing is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long
bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one
were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For
all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall
for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable
unless one constantly struggles to efface one's own personality."
~ George Orwell
It's just there
simmering down, somewhere in the
attic of this cluttered brain matter
it varies in forms and frames
like those splashy colors that are dear to me
I like to change and try them all
some I dislike, sore to my eyes
no reasons I can tell
why I despise them, I just do
don't even try
People palavering me
and clinging that drives me
deep personal possessions
like some good music
renders me blind
Sun that's new everyday
so are the shadows it designs
so often I want to paint it all
all the designs and ideas behind
I want to write it all
If not write then
shout it out loud
beginning to end
I just want to put it in rhyme
but, it doesn't
It remains there
hiding out, may be waiting
for the right time and place
or maybe there isn't a space
where I can write it down.
