Make Mention

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: June 13, 2019

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Submitted: June 13, 2019

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When I try to write,
Absolutely nothing comes to mind.
I write and I find
That there is nothing there in the silence of a passing moment.
What a critical component
That I write without the thought to,
Writing for me, free, thus for you,
And when I write without thought,
-A paradox-
Overwhelmed with the thoughts- 
Of catastrophy-
I write quite eloquently.
A sudden poison positioned into passage
A message
With the content,
A distraction,
To the period of finality, 
Subjective actuality,
An elixir to cure.
That you might find obscure.
For you to consume for your own thought, 
Caught,
In your own time,
In your own perception-
A conclusion of creation 
Through the creation of my conclusion.
Concluding even maybe confusion.
And I can't tell you the meaning of what I write.
Neither you nor I are wrong nor right.
It is a provocation-
It is an invitation-
Try not to fight,
In the waves of type.
Becoming and being everything in this sight.
And so I write.
Thoughtless in the conconcious stream of thought.
And I ought
To teach you the importance of the periods of nothingness
That what I generate, compells,
Like a spell,
Spelling of languange into comprehension,
Even with hesitation,
To submit and become submissive,
While dominating, amidst it,
Your brain
With something a little less sane,
To let you know
You can endure
And you can write
Wrong and right
And either way it is both
Dark and light.
And to be fully understood,
Is not
What is important.
It's the reinforcement-
Of the thoughts that I gift you
With the thoughts of my gift
To type what I write of evident invention.
Even when there is something or nothing
There in the silence, turn loundess,
Of a passing inception.
Be open.
Be searching.
Through truth and deception
A depth
And a lesson.
And I'm tongue tied.
Of rhyme.
And none so.

 

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