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 