Poetry Collection.

Prose Poem XIV

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      Always is my wrist a terrible, distractive ache when I waste my time writing, but this inconvenience is still a lesser pain than the rasp of the voice that comes natural to me. What is the true mark of humanity: The easy flow of its instinctual tendencies, or its hard-pressed will to rise above its bases and seek with ambition the beauty of higher essence?
      Art is beauty. Humans are an imperfection, and true perfection is absolute beauty—but still the most raw trait of being human is to waste itself on its stubbornness to achieve the impossible—to cultivate art.

      Conversation bores me terribly, unless it is the silent conversation between three entities: My mind, my pen, and my page.
      My pen must be its own, solemn entity, for its creations are not natural to me. The workers craft the plastics and the springs in the factories, and the machines weld these pieces together. You figure it must be, then, a mere product of human ingenuity and an inanimate vessel through which to cultivate art.
      Even now the pen tells me otherwise by directing my hand across the page with words I have never spoken and sentences I have never thought. When I wield a pen, my base humanity folds back, and in its place expands a higher entity that I myself cannot tangibly comprehend.
      This is what the pen tells me, this is what the page shows me, and I have no natural presence of mind to deny them.

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(July 19th, 2024.)