Flower buds spilled from ink
& from my heart blossoms the words
Like beauty stirs the day
So does ink upon my sheet
Curving those lines
Shaping those stories
They blossom they blossom
From the cave of my mind
And the vernacular veins of my heart
Creeping their ways to anywhere
And as they go upon there
My mind stops & wonder & think
Of these weeds these seeds I feed
I write till non stop I write till extasis
Within my roots ink spills
Making shapes of my mind at stake
I am sane I am sane
As these words blossom
Into flowering buds.
This poem is the continuation of a verse I wrote last year, titled spilled ink. For some time now it’s been on my mind to finish this poem, where to me, the metaphoric picture in my mind of a poem really seem like flowers blossoming out from ink or, a pot of ink.
I plunge myself one last time into the story – It’s the final round till refinery My eyes are meticulously Critical While my mind is eagerly Maniacal Inside my heart, an invisible agitation Groans like a thunder like of fascination I try to keep my pace and seemingly peace – But its shattering, and its distorting That life, expanding it to my being This phase of edit makes my stomach churn; For it will soon be over, I confirm
Concentrate. Mediate. Phases of inquiries
To edit I want to evict Far away Into another story But to edit Is the key Now I am an erudite In need of serenity
Concentrate. Mediate. Phases of inquiries
All things that makes me dysfunctional – I disregard All things that plunge me into the subliminal – I open my arms open wide; It’s a state of mind to be in without fear The state of creativity that fends objectivity I see that light when those that dies see, And I know that I am on the other side of doubt
Concentrate. Mediate. Phases of inquiries
Qui sera sera Whatever will be Will be The answer is clear, my dear, qui sera Sera.
Editing is more difficult than the act of writing itself; where concentration and serenity of mind are very important for me right now. I am trying to shut myself up to everything that might distract my focus—for finishing the book is more important than wandering my mind on things that take too much of my energy.
This free verse is simply a plongeon into the subjectivity of the phase I am going through right now. I see myself as the captain of my ship, with the steer in hand, navigating on the pathway… my pathway… but I don’t know into which harbour I’ll be anchoring my ship, hence the allusion to the song Que será, será in the end, because I still don’t know to where I’ll go from here.
For some times now I’ve been reading articles about fiction being treated like non-fiction. But for goddamn sake, when did fiction fell into those kinds of hands? Like really! What is happening around these days? Authors of fiction lie, authors of fiction make-up stories, authors of fiction do all kinds of random things here and there as to be inspired, authors of fiction invent all sorts of things as to create a whole world of fantasy, but in none of the case, do authors of fiction write non-fiction, and this, when they have clearly stipulated that what has been penned down or typed are works of fiction.
It’s called fiction for a reason, you see, it’s art for the sake of art, it’s fiction for the sake of fiction. And what other writers — of type essayist, journalistic, or literary critics write, are the only elements from the work that needs to be treated as non-fiction. I do think that there have been some misinterpretation of fictional work alongside the other creative writings. Works of fiction are big big lies and all made up stories meant to tickle the fanciness of readers; a simple material for evasion, and as well as distraction, and that’s all. Like what, everything is getting more and more absurd these days.
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 dew 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 world 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, dwells into the depth of my mind, with flowering ivies blossoming their way, 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 think that inspiration is everywhere, suffice that you look deeply, gently bringing your attention to the aesthetic form of things, where even the essence of what our vocab describes as worst and repulsive are beautiful in their own way. So, I do hope that you open your eyes, as to let your mind gaze at the primary essence of things, for you to think, and to write.
I’ve always love poetry into its every texture and form, and loved writing my own in my teen days. Poetry, visual art, music, ambient movies, and catchy written books have always satisfied my thirstiness of subtle evasion. I myself having particular taste of things, while I have never found the specific community so as for me to adhere, I have found my joy and happiness into ‘The arts’.
Spilled ink
Flower buds
Spilled from ink,
And from my heart
Grows out flowery words
Like beauty stirs into the day
So does ink upon my sheet
