Sometimes it flows like blood unto a tube,
powerful streams quickly filling the vial.
Other times, its like prying out a tooth with a fork.
Sometimes, its every word is a joy, every paragraph an achievement.
On other occasions, every letter is deleted, and no sentence looks right.
Some days, it feels like I was born to do this.
Other days, I doubt whether I will ever "make it" at all.
Its the most fulfilling thing I've ever done and the most frustrating.
Why pick up a pen or turn on the laptop, time and time
and time and time and time again?
I can't form an answer.
I can't find a reason.
I do it because I must.
The Eye of The Storm
Miss getting high.
Miss living that life.
Surfing the edge of night.
Skating what’s wrong and right.
Normal life makes the man die,
Before he’s dead.
A Slow death.
Waiting for something to happen.
That’s already happened.
All that’s left now,
To chase that golden cow,
And hope she pays out,
For those final years,
When you get to live again.
But by then, it’s too late,
You’ve lost the taste.
The young man is dead.
His memories in your head.
Here comes the end of night.
Some call it the eternal light,
Truly, truly getting high.
Have you just been trying to get back to it all along?
Where you came from?
Was getting high a moment in that eye,
Of the storm,
Waiting to transform.
Back to dust.
Back to it all.
Free from bondage.
A million pieces of light.
And then back in.
For more of the same.
This time we’ll really live this life.
Merry go round.