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 ❤