Tonight, we feast on words.
Even though we are separated by worlds.
Your ages so tender,
So full of splendour,
Colloquially speaking,
You’re mind benders.
And mine?
Battered, beaten and bruised,
Torn, healed, re-abused,
But, I remain amused.
At the possibilities ahead,
Just like you,
Open hearted to receive,
To conceive,
To achieve.
So raise the goblets in time,
And lets drink loves wine.
-W.E.
For me, the ability to write only comes in the stillness of the night.
Thoughts, ideas, musings and pondering pass through me during the day.
A word from him, a look from her, a thought from that person expressed through mere presence, my guard is up and I’m on alert and I take notes but I only find the reaping at night when silence prevails, my belly is empty, life forms are otherwise dead and the stillness allows it all to manifest.
Like a bashful girl summoned from behind a veil, some things deserve their own stage.
You must find that place and realise the worlds most noble sages, scholars, writers, artists, musicians and poets all revelled in solitude.
Some may need alcohol to remove these filters and inhibitions, but it will always be a mask, a psychotropic drug that keeps the demons at bay long enough for you to function. But the best of your work will only come when the body is pure, detoxified of material and of ego and ripe with a fertile soil.
-ME
Reflecting back on my youth until present, whether it was paint, drawing, music or writing even building and fabricating, none of it could occur without an underlying gnawing of agitation.
Agitation of the mind, heart or soul, something had to be agitated for art to manifest.
Last two post didn’t work too well. So here it is again.
Reblogged from here:
http://slamtv.org/2015/09/10/we-are-poets-feature-documentary/
You can watch it here: https://vimeo.com/ondemand/wearepoets
If silence is the absence of noise,
Then take me to the place where even silence vanishes.
Maybe there, I, will cease to exist.
-ME
Caffeine coursed veins
Lead to empty hall brains
With no lights on
But echoes of chains
The pains, the strains
The soul drained.
No we’re not at all insane
Just wanting higher plains
Trying to leave our mark, our stain
Not wanting to be contained
Trying to unshackle
The rein
Until none of me remains
And my ego does not complain
My spirit can soar, unrestrained
My attention to The Real
Not the profane, not the mundane
And I no longer feign
-ME
Franz Kafka said to his adoring Fiance
You once said that you would like to sit beside me while I write. Listen, in that case I could not write at all. For writing means revealing oneself to excess; that utmost of self-revelation and surrender, in which a human being, when involved with others, would feel he was losing himself, and from which, therefore, he will always shrink as long as he is in his right mind. That is why one can never be alone enough when one writes, why there can never be enough silence around one when one writes, why even night is not night enough.
Yes, this true! I agree wholeheartedly with him. Any writer that needs an audience to complete his work is a show pony, not a stallion of the desert of words.
lonerloaner 