Wednesday, October 24, 2012


There are some fantasies so fantastic
they claw themselves deep into the brain,
and set up a permanent habitation. 

Cerebral function ceases
all productive means
of procuring happiness
because no reality can ever
climb the basic rule of thumb
this imprint demands.

The leaves will turn,
no matter how green the mind. 
The sky will darken,
no matter how radiant the dream.

Authenticity escapes ability
as bitterness begins
to boil below the membranes. 

A skull can only hold
so much before it ruptures,
while hope alone
elasticizes the marrow.

Friday, October 12, 2012

Why write

I write therefore I am.  I exist completely when transferring the most profound or mundane bits of my perception from concept to concrete.  When I write life begins to make sense, because I am able to make sense of life through the trickling of thought from brain to forearm, from forearm to paper. 

The slow creeping slopes of letters in ink, the hurried scribbles of a mad-woman, or the gentle pecking of keyboard, no matter what form writing takes, the very action of it is inclined to incubating every dormant hope and erecting new dreams from old memories.  I write to give a name to the things felt at the height of empathy. 

Though language may be our most lofty barrier, words weave the fabric of connection.  Words are the gateway to extraordinary vision.  To someday articulate mine -- This is why I write.