On Writing

I pour them onto the page,

All my thoughts, emotions, words,

Till they blend in swirls of paint brush colors.

A blue branch in a pool of blood,

A single green corona of light

Floating in a puddle of mud,

A scatter of golden dewdrops

Splattered all over a colorless flood.


Then comes the matter

Of dissection, separation, refinement,

Of trimming the edges and cutting the losses,

Of shoving the colors into strict alignment.

Parting the sea with sodden brushes,

Viciously editing per assignment,

Until each thought, emotion, and word

Is in its own distinct confinement.


The wild, free melee

Of unabridged, uncorrected aspiration

Now lies in neat little boxes,

Each made to fit expectation.

Perfect, symmetrical rows formed

By passion disguised as synchronization.

The raw, powerful dance of colors

Forced by grammar into subjugation.


"It's nothing original,

Nothing I haven't seen before."

We aim to please, but they never cease

Comparing us to that which is no more.

"The rhyme scheme is negligible,

The ending something of a bore."

Is this crude synopsis of myself

Not what you were looking for?