When I Need The Words // When I Do Not Need The Words

Why is it that my best writing comes when I am most fragile?

When I need the words to make meaning

to loop, to weave, conjoin, exist

when a life with out words is far harder, more complex, numb, and unlivable—

I want the words to come when I want, not when they want

for them to flood in

Beautiful, lyrical, in the form of sweet poetry and conceptual prose

to be complex, thoughtful, and enticing

to excite others, and please me

I want them raw and to feel encumbered 

But for them to be raw 

I must cumbered 

the two are inseparable 

like twins

or birds of feather

Flocking together 

To write without the urge is unbearable

Stress in the brain

Nothing to name

or complain

Is the weather an acceptable topic? I question:

it rains.

When it rains it pours, 

But when I talk of rain, 

the quality of the piece is poor

(a true bore)

I want nothing to do with myself

in this un-writerly state

I feel unartistic

unimaginative

Lame

I call upon

My many anxieties (I lament their unwanted births like no other)

the secrets within the closet

the secrets I keep

baseless concerns

my morality

the Drama, 

The throbbing in the chest that is hard to put to rest, 

Illness, 

injury

heartbreak

:

I want you 

I need you

Please Come to Me, at All Moments in the Night

during the day too! In conversation,

in moments of work

Rest, respite

when I clean, cook, bathe, feed, and sustain myself,

you are everything (for my art)

This is the best solution

the only solution

(I think, no— have decided)

for my self

and my soul:

For, I am a crafter, 

Create-er,

a Do-er being.

I do not know what I am,

without a self made product

I produce

I make

that is Me. 

And so, I take the pain in full, and the unrelenting mental warfare that will ensue.