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  • the poet
    13 Jun 2002

    back and forth left to right
    moving with the sporadic motion of a fine machine. smooth lines to form the soul of a person. swaying. the blue spreading across the page as if he were using his own blood but to him he already is. putting his mind to work articulating the stir of echos in himself. swaying to and fro filling the page as quickly as he can write. he started without motive or emtion just the paper, the pen and the desk. the swiftness of his motion tiring hand muscles that have been abused like this too often to recall or want to. he would have used his own blood to write if he didn't have that ball point because by now the pen was an extention of him. so much so honestly the sight of his own plasma, instead of the cool blue wouldn't change his ferocity or desire to write. He is a definite fanatic, the very embodiment of one. staying up at all hours. writing and writing even though few would be allowed to read his works… rather his art. he couldn't draw, he damn well sure couldn't play a thing musical or athletic but he knew the power of his words. it moved him and that's all that mattered. He didn't need the kudos of critics and friends; yes he was afraid of being judged. he was afraid of failure but to him he had succeeded to the levels of the heroes of literature. so why did he need to be told otherwise? he saw no point. so he is still there, still filling the page until it is graffitied with words. words to anyone else, or experience to him. it's conclusion celebrated by sleep for the half awake, half straved and fully vindicated artesian.

    wrote this one in a class. came very easily