Ghostwriting

Alot of times I find pieces in my “junk drawer.”

Well-written, emotionally charged documents

which embody everything that writing is supposed to be.

Everything that I love about it.

But I don’t remember writing them.

See,

When I have a lot of those...

you know…

feelings...

too many for me too handle,

and too many to bottle up,

I sit down and I write.

I bleed, just as Ernest Hemingway said writers should.

And once I’ve finished,

once the pages have leached the vile, curdled emotions from my heart

(for now)

I forget it even happened.

When I fall into that space,

of complete abandon,

of full-scale therapeutic word purging,

I am not myself.

Not the self who remembers the past or dwells in it.

I am my purest self.

So pure I cannot even remember that I wrote, let alone what I wrote.

And that is raw, pure, beauty.

That, my friends,

is writing.

Impromptu Poem

These are 4 Truths of Life. 

Imagination is a powerful tool.

Without it, phones would look like refrigerators,

and we would be locked into reality

Clichés stomp out creativity.

Why contaminate our own writing with second-hand ideas?

Self-consciousness is detrimental.

We hate being addressed with demands, or commands,

But every day,

We allow others control our lives,

With their opinions.

Drama does not find us, we invite it.

*This is not meant to be a full poem, just a few observations.