New poem.
Thick paper.
A pencil.
A pinpoint pen.
Keys and
a white screen.
Weak control over impulse.
Dysfunction or
ecstatic whirlwind
in hand, taken as
a capsule waiting
to be swallowed and
absorbed in pursuit
of a healthier next moment.
Willingness to recover
from such inspiration
in favor of following a path
cut by mistakes.
A vision,
a sound,
a word.
A move.
A first, a second,
a next,
a next.
A stop.
Rest.
Dissatisfaction.
Again,
again,
again;
never
a last.
Ever.
Dark Matter 
February 23rd, 2015 at 4:11 pm
Thoughts consume is and spit us right back out.
February 23rd, 2015 at 4:12 pm
Yes, they do.
February 23rd, 2015 at 4:17 pm
True. Hey I hope you don’t mind but I’d like to invite you to my blog at http://www.insanitybeautiful.wordpress.com
February 23rd, 2015 at 4:19 pm
I’m reading it right now. Thank you for the invite.