mechanically

[one hundred, fifty-five]

Brighten my day mechanically
down a long and tree littered road,
by shimmering classes of elevators,
or trembling sheets of flying,
living, but was lost,
pick up the brambles in your arm
and let me slip in there, too

When I write poetry, or anything really, I just let myself write. I don't really think about it, and I don't really think that's the point. I write what I'm feeling and let words form a shape and style of what is appropriate for what I am trying to say. The funny thing is, I never know what I'm trying to say.

If it was four am or the twelfth of June, it made no difference in the glass-floored bedroom. There was always an eye, always a watch-dog pounding on the floor. There was always some sort of crazy loon of a neighbour pounding on the walls. The roof nearly caved in trying to uphold the wind the rain, the waste that pounded the ceiling. It was a bedroom of nails, of shattering, it wasn't a slumber area, but that of a chamber invested in torturing convicts torturing those who deserved it most. The bedroom was hell.

I write a little paragraph without thinking, and images just float through. I was trying to describe it as I am walking smoothly through a tunnel in my mind, and it is dream-like the thoughts and images and words, the things that form my writing. These are glimpses into my short blitzes, which I am thinking of doing soon, where short little bursts of writing come thorugh combined into a long lovely written nothing. I don't know why I felt like writing about this right now, I'll end in cadence.

Four times ago I looked up and saw the way he was watching as subtle as a storm
as if miles away but right under his nose, he watched and checked his marks, today.

take care,

Jess :]