Pen Grind

woman-fog

My pen is a dancer,
On pages, a prancer,
For lovers, a romancer,
For the impotent, an enhancer,
Head bowed shy girls, a glancer,
And the spiritual, a trancer,
For the ignorant, the answer,
But for me, a cancer.
You praise it’s path and the trail it leaves behind
And I cry for my curse, obliteration of mind,
Search for me high and wide, and you won’t find,
Deaf, dumb and mute, right in front of you, blind.
Stop assuming you get me, I’m nothing of your kind,
Leave me to myself, in this pen grind.

-W.E.

If your pen could dance, which dance would it perform?
Better yet, what is your pen grind? Tell me about your devotion to the word, to the ink, show me what it means to you, expunge poetry, don’t traumatise me with a description from the fifth grade.

The wakefulness of laymen is the monotonous bore or labour. I want more. Your slumber is the inter-world of finding your balance, death is pure wakefulness so kill your SELF by staying awake. Deprive yourself of sleep until you go mad, until the filters are all gone and you come out from slumber, awake in all your glory.

Get drugged up and hallucinate and let out a side of you that your secondary school teacher thinks is Rumi’s ghost.

Fucking tickle my spine with a jack hammer. Don’t give me lame intro-body-conclusion answers. Fuck my mind over with something that needs claws to dig out of your guts and sages to bring me back to sanity after having tasted a bit of you.

Don’t fucking bore me with your mindless drivel, your polite etiquettes of exchange. My skin is thicker than oak stump and mind burnt beyond ability of ashes gathering, but my soul is fragrant with the familiarity of that vulgar beauty, that raw elixir of your pungent soul…. unbottle you and pour it down me and let my notes render all scents bland.

-W.E.

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