I’ve been writing while sippin on my stream of consciousness
because unlike the bottle it feels bottomless
–
I recognize It’s healthier to listen to some beats on repeat
so I can think instead of letting my muse have another drink
–
Because if I don’t keep writing the ink might sink into the page
and what I meant to say will fade away
–
Its a cage made of blank spaces and lines to help guide
everything I try to hide and keeps them inside
–
And after a few ounces in, my pen will start to spin and
the lines look too thin – think: damn it not again
–
but I don’t flinch or cringe: I clench my fist through one more binge
and use my pen like a syringe to make it out past the fringe
–
it’s not like coming unhinged so much as opening a door to within:
a place where I can learn to forgive and let live
–
It’s out there: somewhere, so long ago before I started using metaphors
or settled for using a career as a mirror
–
a place where it’s clear I fall too easy and fall too fast trying
to capture something and someone in my past life
–
but writing fast won’t outlast how fast my past has caught up
my present or express resentment for a stress that won’t relent
–
that’s why content can feel like contempt if I only vent or
strangle on hopes last rope made from tangled language
–
because I’m gambling and scrambling to keep a handle on
managing anxieties without damaging my psyche
–
see: if I don’t write it might be the death of me by confusing
identity with energy – it’s why expression is a necessity
–
So I’d rather over dose on the ecstasy of cleansing
my conscious than using a bottle to stop it – to just stop it

 

TM Colin Corpe 2018