Originally Written

Standard

Sometimes feeling the power of movement from pen to paper offers a

more satisfyingly embrace of a language

uncharacteristic of fingers to keys;

 

unless of course the keys produce the vibrational

sound of something inspiring like one of Mozart’s symphonies

 

but not in the case of this definitional confusing

of one word or phrase, meaning something entirely

different from the former thought before

getting distracted by the various amounts of rants, excuse me…

 

Ahem, so thereby standing on the placidly positioned

soapbox of feministic qualities, though I

rarely try to label an individual’s activities,

especially those to classify as my own,

My restlessness speaks volumes, as my

injured hand can attest

 

To feel moved to creation whereas typing any word seems

disheartening, not as interesting as to

Write for the excitement of feeling; of the trailing of thought

shooting out of psyche and sprouting down into index finger

and thumb, balancing on the delicate

 

bird only addressed, usually by some

douchebag distracted: one hand on wheel, one hand caressing cell;

A momentary lapse of judgment that is peculiar for this gender,

or so it would seem, portrayed as even now

as I continue choosing dedication over comfort

 

With sword in mouth ready to slice down,

willing to action of emitting random passions

Sharp intestinal misgivings of simple realities

 

even as unaware of own, claiming idols

worthy of noteworthy admiration and a bit of honorary

imitation, but there is still a slightly

less than relatable piece for me, missing from their

well-versed lines and spiritually bending

phrases, as if human can only relate to human

a true bond, for sure but not quite the answer

 

to the riddle playing its familiar melody of

whispering quandaries of

culture, gender, religion, spirit, death, life

Where do we belong in a piece written

by one but to be addressed to us all?

To connect in hand, placing words in text to hold onto,

instead of a sweaty handshake

or an awkward hug

 

My silence is weak, I sometimes can go

days without tracing out some thought

through the maze of my head

Trudging through the hedging, trying to

find the way out

Lost, alone, Nay!

 

That’s what they say; if a hedge is a wall built to stand up against those

willing to blindly follow an isolated pathway

forward

Getting lost in the tunnel vision view of the artistically enhanced corn

being recorded for the loner’s documentary of the world;

it’s numbing to write of everyone else,

to escape one’s thoughts that lead to the downward pathway

to hell? No,

but it’s easier to see than to ignore, easier to sleep than

stay awake with the unmistakable guilt, my definition of hell

Maybe different than yours? like a cliché metaphoric

labyrinth comparison to fields of starches:

 

Indefinable routes to confuse, to make it difficult to navigate, persuading

looping circles of repetitive moments of frustration

lapses in navigation of self that lead to the same heartbreaking dead ends

Any escape out of the hedge is congratulated

by storytellers who sit on the edge

addicted to the thrill of the tournament and the shame of the

horror

Continuing tradition of keeping score, figures as pawns

in a different kind of sport

Hiding in the leaves, forever writing down their perceptions in

sketches and notes

 

But as for me, I see a hedge and branches, breakable twigs

Moldable objects destined to be worked by an imagination capable of cutting down

any barrier presentable to man, or woman;

(boots firmly placed on box of stance

asking for attention in the power of height

Raising the volume of the mic and positioning spotlight

as if declaring awareness just by the production of it all)

 

If a hedge is a wall and a wall separates two pieces of the puzzle

that connect everything together

then the wall is a chapter, a small hurdle of

situation and placement

easily defeated by will of the heart;

mine fueling the fire to burn each green leaf

to the ground, flaming up in an orange shade of rust

A hole in the greenery

 

Burning out a definable pathway, following the trail

Laying out my own personal depiction of the yellow brick road of

escaping the sticky spiderweb of self and

Introducing one’s own world of amazement at the end of the

short story;

Originally written.

 

I am grateful for peppermint patties ❤

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