the book of song: 創作意欲

poetry as music as life

put your back into it!

nails tapping my palm,
counting up the syllables,
(wishing for morae.)

simple does not mean easy.
effort is not subjective.

block

inspiration hunt
words formed like silver bullets
awaiting sunrise

awaiting a miracle
to dissolve bitter nothings

ferocious promise in the snarling face of a hurricane

I won't consider
myself dead in the water
'til it takes my words.

if I can hold a pen, then
I can and will keep breathing.

sanctuary found in writing tanka

the five-seven-five
the closing seven-seven
sure like an embrace

in a world chased with madness,
a soft certainty lies here.

SHOTS!

writing poems lately
is becoming, to my fear,
rather like drinking:

"Oh, I'm gonna regret this
the next morning!" (and I do.)

writing when tired and stoned

tripcrawling forwards
to a finish line unseen:
a petal ribbon...

under a lily bower,
that floral somnolence calls...