I

On a Thursday at the edge of summer and autumn, when constellations studded the sky, I carried a cup of tea into my study. It was a beautiful cup, hand-painted with buds about to burst into flowers.

words
like amorphous chunks of metal
they rest on a shelf in my brain
and beg to be molded

I long to hold them in the
fire of my skull
till they are soft and malleable

When so many things stop and they clatter, up in the jabambaway things hip, hop and shatter. For up in this place a great WHO lurks about For the little who-whoians ask and they pout. For the lorax knows best, so the Lorax puts those who-whoians to the ultimate test!!

I don’t know why,
Maybe it was just a thought.

‘Less it was not to just sit here,
And have my mind rot.

Writing on paper,
With the scratch of pen.

Thinking of nothing,
‘Cept the thoughts of men.

There is a thing that is stronger than yourself,
That is from you; its plan is one of stealth.
White-hot insults out of a mouth are poured,
Never underestimate the power of a word!

Sometimes I just sit there,
waiting to be struck,
with one poetic thought.
Other times I am struck,
with a line to my poem,
and I have nowhere,
to write it down.
Inspiration comes from,
nature and the world.
It comes from the people,

The pencil soars across the black page
painting imagination, uniqueness
illuminating places concealed in the corner of your mind
bringing eccentric beasts into the fabric of reality
blustering winds rush over once serene, quiet glades
rainbows tango in the sky

I have problems
and I’ll swap mine with you like trading cards.
Long lovely disorders go over the lips like chocolate
but honey, we’ve been writing about these pits of darkness
long before shrinks slapped name tags on them.

Who dreams?
Who dares to enter such a realm?
Visions, fleeting,
Escaping with the waking flutter,
Living on bated breath
And translucent promises of
A world all your own;
A world anew.

When you dream of becoming a writer,
You get stories embedded in your soul
Ideas of near and far-off lands,
And journeys down rabbit holes.

words fill the pages
the pages fill the void
void an existence
and her head is filled with these words
not knowing their meaning
she writes but the words lose reason
she writes and the words are empty
she lives without understanding

Pencil joins with paper.
At once, a
pattern of words
begins to flow
and spread
about the page
stories of another world
of creatures
unknown to man
of sports played
on the moon alone
fairytales,
fiction,
novels,