My mind aches

Not like the pain

Of headaches or migraines

It thrums with thoughts


So fast

I do not comprehend them

They are not tangible

Until I write them out

Acting like a conduit

For something larger than myself

This is automatic writing

Between the possessed

And possession

I am both and it is me

I can no longer separate

My being from the whorl of words

From the stream of consciousness

That streams in me, through me

And out of me like ink

Like water

Like blood

But finer and purer

Like the smoke of altars

Like the smudge of ashes

Like the echo of prayers

That ring hollow in the rafters

And go unanswered

I am worn like a glove

And I stretch over the very bones and flesh

Of what I am creating

Of what I myself am becoming

My mind, it aches

Not with pain

But with words

Being called forth

My mind thrums, revolts, births

And I am merely a conduit

For what is coming




The sweetest of all waters

When I go down to drink

I have to wonder what cupped hands

Have been here taking sips

And deep swallows

Along the wet powder of the shore

Compounded and steady sand

From all the feet leaving their impressions

It was said we all go down to drink

To ponder over art, to ponder over life

As we pour the cool liquid

Down parched throats

Replenish tired minds, dry inkwells,

And stiff paint brushes

We all gather at the place

To find the perfect words

Most beautiful colors and brush strokes

To finish our piece

To complete a poem

To end a story

The sweetest of all waters

The most precious of all liquids

Sustain the dreaming minds

Pool from the root of all artistic desire