each new line
another scab shed
i couldn’t care
less about the words
it is the feeling
as they freeflow
that brings me back
againandagainandagain
and after eight years
it is as intoxicating
if not even more so
than it’s ever felt

i don’t understand
people very well
the words don’t seem
to match the meaning
it becomes anxiety
trying to navigate
animpossiblemindscape
seeking what isn’t said
to unravel the things
which need shouted
a pitch black labyrinth
where each new step
is inevitably wrong

i needed to divest
myself from everything
except for the words
to find the serendipity
of being a mindless
conduit for their art
uncovering the natural
rhythm in a diversity
of fervent syllabication
then finger painting in
the phonetic fallacies
like etching in wet clay
toproduceanemotionalfresco
in an alleyway behind
a sketchy looking dive bar