I think and I write

I think of galaxies and of their beaming lights, and I write.

I think of the rain pouring on my face, and of the winds slashing upon leaves, and I write.

I think of dews blurring the window glass of my bedroom, and I write.

I think of the sounds of water streams and of the songs of birds on a Sunday morning, and I write.

I think of the green grass of the rainy seasons, and of its withered hues when the sun fiercely lights up the summer, and I write.

I think of a stranger locking me up in a filthy basement, and I write.

I think of all these faces, some formless, some of alien traits, living lives of many, and I write.

I think of milk, water falling from my breast, and I write.

I think of the seed of life, erupting from a straightened obelisk, and I write.

I think of dimensions and of worlds to be, and I write.

I write my heart away, with a wandering soul left at bay.

And when these weapons that I’ve never touch dwell in the depth of my mind, while flowering ivies blossom, I write.

And when lights strangle all darkness in the strange land of my imagination, I write.

I write of the poetry and of the peace I would love gifting to the world, to the universe, to you, and to me.

I write, bleeding words for you. I write knowingly you’ll find them. I think and I write. I think, and I write.

Hand writing in notebook on home desk.
Inspiration ignites as I write

We are surrounded by inspiration, suffice that you gently bring your attention to the aesthetic form of things; suffice we take time to stop and think.