My Process

The words in my head are scrambled.

It's the poem I want to write, just jambled.

A rhythm I hear knocking in my brain;

the words in my head; rephrase.

On and on they ramble,

attracting and repulsing until they assemble.

So I get out pen and paper and start writing;

this part is rather trying.

I write down the words that come to mind

until I like the ones I find.

Then its rewrite and rearrange,

word after word filling the page.

I keep going until everything I want on the paper is found;

reread, rewrite until I like the sound.

Make your heart beat like the course of the poem's rhythm: own it.

My style's fast; rapid; kinetic; words gravitate together like they're magnetic.

Inspiration from the sky.

Somedays I just lay watching the clouds, birds, stars, and things in the heavens that fly.

Colors hold meanings - subtle clues;

look close, they might reveal secrets or moods.

At unexpected times my frantic mind forms the ideas:

consonants and vowels, rebounding and colliding - an insane fiasco of incredible manias.

Sometimes the words inflict hidden hurt in the crack in the plaster formed to conceal the emotions.

The vehement reminiscence from violent, verbal explosions.

A fear of unleashing it unto a person or friend spells internal and mental disaster;

fear of becoming the beast escaped from instead of its cool, collected master.

It's the pace of the thumping in my head

after dragging myself out of bed,

stressing about what's ahead.

AA, BB; the pattern you'll typically see.

If you find yourself asking "what did I just read?"

Ask the me drunk on caffeine: sober thoughts of my tenth cup of coffee.