Writing is therapeutic for me.
It releases the doubts from my psyche,
It purges all the negativity from my mind and
for a moment, at this particular moment,
I feel wholly alive.
Alive in a trancsedental sense. The gate to my mind is left wide open and creativity
barges through without dealing with security.
I am me when I write (how simple yet so amazing is that?)
Love for myself and those around me spills from my fingers as I type. my hands ache as I wield my pen like a sword but I stride on. Estcasy bleeds from my fingertips as I explunge words of love and pain on paper or desktop. and the pain drives me further into masochistic madness. calluses freckle the edge of my fingers like barnacles; i rub salt on them so they remain humble.
Writing has me at 2:25am, eastern time, bags under my eyes, smiling in the dark.
I am no longer human when I reach my “zone”. Earthly things cannot disturb me as I create civilatatons, generations, histories, and myths within the borders of college-lined.
There is no limit yet the limit I compose is tepid at most.
Like the viel between worlds, wrinkling during Beltane or midsummer eve, I breach through the silky web of cosmos. crying as i burst through though the yoke of genital oppression,I allow my wings to unfurl and stretch as I moan in elation.
I soar high
as each stroke of the pen drives me madder
I plummet from the sky, full and sated
As I sit back from my desk and read over my work with a smarmy, satisfied look across my face.