More Ryhme des mots

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As soon as you look away from that wall.

When you emerge from the deepest and most haunted parts of your mind.

The moment you tear your eyes from your hand opening
Closing.
Opening.
Closing.
Watching the joints moving with surrealism.
Have you ever watched your hand open and close, finger by finger?
It is, as I said, quite surreal.

Write when the planet is spinning on its axis to the sound of war drums.
When the air outside is tired of rushing too and fro, so it sits down for a moment;
Having forgotten to get up and blow out the torches positioned in the dry hills,
the world catching to fire, like it was bored of being safe, of sitting down to rest.
So it got hurt instead.

Write when the very thought of existing makes you tired. Like the mist surrounding responsibility has taken form and clouded your eyes.

Write when the demon of time rests on your hand, and you begin to notice its dark footprints.

Write
Like a hypocrite who was inspired by the micro grains of human skin culminating atop the butterflies in her stomach, sleeping through the days taken for granted.
(Hello.)

Write when everything is perfect.
When mania calls you to dance at her feet.
Write into the night while you can, while you feel so much more than complete.
For it cannot last longer than the time it takes to pick up the phone. Savor your ride on the rings surrounding the planet of anticipation.

Write with all of your windows open, your eyes closed.
Dictating blindly to the notes in your phone.

Write like Persephone to Demeter in the winter time.
Like it is a crime the way it was a crime to pray to any god but Darius in Daniels time.

Like you are Elijah being taken from the earth on a chariot of fire.
Write like you are writing the Merkabah itself. As if you are a prophet who must document the world for the worlds to come next.

Scribble with the ferocity of Plato listening by the weathered side of Socrates as he speaks about Atlantis and Alexandria as if he hasn't just seen them; But built them with his own two hands.
Written the scrolls in their halls with that very pen.

Sketch out the letters of your poetry like you have just fallen in love with a god, and you wish to describe their features for your stolen memory to treasure.
For your demigod children to remember.

Write like you are Atlas, holding up the sky;
Weapons such as word should not be forged sitting down,
lest you wish to watch your sword shatter when you stand, battalion of verbs and vowels at your command.

Write like you are at war with your soul.
Tear it apart with a sharp quill.
You are building worlds with your own mind and your own wit!
How dare you expect to come out of the parchment with all of yourself in place.
You will be cut into patterns, like lace.

Don't worry about being a poet, or a journalist, or an editor.

All it takes to be an artist
is
one
word
after
the
other.