So, as I was sitting at my desk i sudden had a spark of creativity and wrote one amazingly long poem. I called it The Stream because I just let whatever wanted to come, come out, like stream of consciousness. I hope this is only one in a long string of poems.

The Stream

As I sit at my desk thoughts start to come rolling in

Like trains at a station.

I like suffering

Suffering gives me the creativity that I need

To help the juices in my mind keep flowing

Like a bee on a flower I suck the suffering

And I use it for my hive

I place the words in dark hidden places

And hope to use them for later.

As the dark ominous music plays

It makes it easier for me to write this poem

It gives a short of placebo suffering.

As I sit at my desk

My eyes are heavy

Yet I am awake

This poem is one of the first to come out of the back up

Perhaps more will come out

It seems slow,

I expect it to be quick

Like death

I shall not let my words die

Shall not let them parish and be forgotten

Poetry is the only thing I have ever been good at

Poetry is the only thing that has ever given me passion

Without it

I am nobody

I am nothing

I am just a speck on the microscope

Without poetry my body feels like it has been destroyed

By a thousand Roman armies

Destroying every inch of my country

Sure I have picked up short stories and screenplays

But they are just side issues.

Poetry is forever

Poetry is forever

It is common for a poet to suffer

When words don’t come from his fingers

And turn into a stream of printed words

Poetry has been the only thing that has ever shown me any gratitude

I have always sucked at everything I did

Baseball

Basketball

Riding a bike

Video games

But poetry is my gift

Poetry is the painting that I can paint with

Just my heart strings and a pair of bloody scissors

Poetry is my compass when I am lost on the sea of souls

Trapped somewhere in between

The land of opportunity

And the land of the dead

My fingers are my instrument of destruction

And my instrument of torture

Poetry is the voice

That is hidden deep inside the pits

I thank whatever forces gave me the urge to write again

And let the stream flow

And flow

And flow