Monday, May 26, 2014

Post-Writing High


I type.
I think.
I write.

I am in a fine fine trance.

I wonder if this is the high
People get from drugs.
I wonder if this is the intoxication
From exotic wine.

This high and intoxication,
From your own words.
This transportation to another world
Of your own making.

It's beautiful.

A personal secret you keep from others.
Not deliberately of course.
Only that,
They will never experience
This exact same high.
There is only one true author
To a piece of work.

My writing may be simple.
It may not be genius.
But the approval,
And the appreciation,
That comes from the self.

I giggle.
I feel like flying.

And when I close my eyes,
I realize.
I have never been so free.

Not when I lay awake at night,
And bear all the troubles I had for the day.
Not when I force a smile,
For all of my loved ones.
Not when I write a prose so thought of,
That I worry for grammar and predictability.

This one.
This one's for me.
This high I feel,
I have to record it.
Without thinking -
Without knowing.

I'm reading it out loud -
Slurring the words
Like a manic junkie.

This one is for that
Previous poem I wrote,
That transported me,
Into the void
Of black and white.

This is for all the words
That made me become somebody else -
Someone deep,
In someplace else,
And even more probably,
Existing as a murderer.

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