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Feb 27, 2010
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Unbound.
What would my fingers flow thoust i let them free?, free to run wild with ink and image.....how would the reader taste my skin of thought?
Would i pop like uncorked champange, flow to bubble and fizz, causing pop and stir, journey to greener grass? Or would i turn cheap and flat, a dissapointment of the ecommany brands.
Self belief and fear have alot to answer for. Why do i tightly bind up my train, dam up the words that froth at the gate, build higher stone and wood, fortifying the gate, to silence and muffle the roar and crashing of wind, water and word against that dam. Til it is so muted that im blind to the brail. stone smoothed and wood splinter soothed by the waters and wind calmed. But what of the words?
Why they are now insipid of course, churned so violently in the storm of white washing, conforming, bowing down. That they know their place.
Shhhhhhh i hear them tap tap tapping, whispering at the walls of mentle block.
Lash at the leash cuts the sly tongue, swim in roar of the ocean behind the trickling stream you dammed up. Loose your close to drowning point. Till breath is stolen like word, tossed and turned battered and bashed, against that wood and stone,
chip and berate them, til your lungs burn and your ears seeth freedom. Til wood is but pulp for paper and stone is dust of memory.
The water, oil to pour the contents of the dam across the pulp.
Would i pop like uncorked champange, flow to bubble and fizz, causing pop and stir, journey to greener grass? Or would i turn cheap and flat, a dissapointment of the ecommany brands.
Self belief and fear have alot to answer for. Why do i tightly bind up my train, dam up the words that froth at the gate, build higher stone and wood, fortifying the gate, to silence and muffle the roar and crashing of wind, water and word against that dam. Til it is so muted that im blind to the brail. stone smoothed and wood splinter soothed by the waters and wind calmed. But what of the words?
Why they are now insipid of course, churned so violently in the storm of white washing, conforming, bowing down. That they know their place.
Shhhhhhh i hear them tap tap tapping, whispering at the walls of mentle block.
Lash at the leash cuts the sly tongue, swim in roar of the ocean behind the trickling stream you dammed up. Loose your close to drowning point. Till breath is stolen like word, tossed and turned battered and bashed, against that wood and stone,
chip and berate them, til your lungs burn and your ears seeth freedom. Til wood is but pulp for paper and stone is dust of memory.
The water, oil to pour the contents of the dam across the pulp.
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