Speechless

Just writing random thoughts
Are you all still hung over from 2020?

Just writing now
Because I can feel the words cueing up
They want out
A heated debate
Who goes first
The conjunctions are calling dips
And I can’t resist

But now what?

Too much noise for form
A verbacious whiplash
Without verbs

The count of nouns
Futile attempt at clarity
Chaos stronghold

So what if?

What if I just keep writing
Eventually form follows
Follows what?
Action?
Form follows function!
That’s it.

Writing is the function
Writing an act of clarity
Writing an act of clarification
Writing an act of creating form

So writing is both function
And in the end form

Does any of this make sense?
Did you notice my cleverly deployed grammar?
How is 2021 treating you?
Or are you still dissociating from 2020 holding breath until you can open the door of the storm shelter?

The words are still stuck
In the tumbling chaos
Of mind
Eventually they will all come out
One way or another

Stories–a poem

A poem lingers in the back of my throat; scratching my vocal cords like an angry cat.

When I close my eyes words dart across my lids like alarmed starlings from the cherry tree.

The rhythm of words pulsates through my veins, like the bass from a subwoofer.

I hear the echoes of stories wanting told, wanting an audience, needing out–into the open.

Every cell of my body wants to tell stories; for in stories we live, we learn, we join the past with the future.

The library is too huge, large, enormous, endless, eternal, ethereal, intangible to crasp but the stories must be lived.

Are you in the right book?
What story have you chosen?

I don’t want to write

Because my voice is not heard
I send outpourings of love
Into the ether

Maybe they don’t reach you?
But maybe the reach AI
And teach the future

Because your voice is not heard
I write
And send outpourings of love
Into the ether

So that you know
You are never alone
In this world of ours
We all belong

But I don’t want to write
Because
What’s the point
Of one drop of water
Within the ocean

An act of writing

Is an act of self-care
An act of connecting
An act of healing
An act of civic duty
An act of kindness
An act of giving voice

Voice to the voiceless
the unseen
the unheard

Sometimes just
the unseen parts of us
the unheard sorrows
the unwitnessed joys that pepper loneliness and make it more acute

An act of writing
Is an act of being
An act of forgiving
An act of punishing

An act of self-truth
I am never that far away from my writing

An act of writing
Is holding up the mirror
to our selves–if we want or not
we are blindsided into looking at our reflection

The mirror is sneaky like that

An act of writing is weaving threads
We are all one
In the end

You cannot

You cannot cross the same river twice
You cannot go back to change regrets
You cannot predict where tomorrow carries you
You cannot know then what you know now
You cannot sing an unwritten song
You cannot feel when you are numb
You cannot hear over the noise in your mind
You cannot see what’s right in front of you
You cannot fix what’s meant to break
You cannot heal without looking in the mirror
You cannot run from yourself
You cannot flee your past either
You cannot do what you can’t
But can you do what you can?

Can you be you?

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