Why I Write
I write because my head gets crammed if I keep too much in there.
Then I continue to write because what I have already written gets me thinking, questioning; What part of me is expressing?
Where is all this coming from?
What more is there?
What happens when I stop taking these words so personally?
Seriously! Do I believe what I am writing?
It’s rather exciting, becoming aware of lies I’ve lived by
and would continue to carry with me if it weren’t for this release.
It’s like uncorking the piggy bank that judgments
have been putting quarters into since I was young.
Able to be aware of thought now
and it’s impact on me has me seeing how
I’m able to create my state of being.
Thought leads to feeling.
Breaking down the conditioning of constantly disassociating
from what is going on within me...
It’s so damn freeing!
This place of understanding has me holding onto multiple beliefs at once.
Actually no, I’m not holding onto them, they’re sticking to me.
I’m the flytrap hanging inside the greasy spoon diner that most stubborn folk despise.
They don’t want to be reminded of the comfort addiction, causal reaction, end state: death.
But what’d they expect?
Their presence requires a conduit to make sense of the hate that discriminates.
If the flytrap only held one fly, it’d be really hard to peacefully eat french fries.
And this isn’t always easy for me; it causes suffering, but also liberation.
A mental masturbation, so to speak, the temporary release
of inhibitions through conflicting declarations.
I’m fighting the war for imagination
with each word written
the power of idea lives again.
Life is romanticized and so is death
because the opposite of love is indifference.
This is my religion.
Expression, my way to the divine.
I attend church at open mics.
This is how I survive.
My heart is my anchor,
my voice, my sails.
I write because I need the rhythmic shakes of creation to push this ship through hell.
(2015)
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