The Origin of Writer's SadnessFor.Pete's.Sake.Why, you may ask, are writers so wrought,So down-in-the-dumps,So dead-in-the-head withDepression?What is the point, asking,These creatures that life soDesperately searches,To create, (etymology here, you see),To ponder that which is already known,Or that which is,But yet unknown.How a simple comma can make usEat GrandmaOr eat with her,Or how a simple person can cost usSo.Many.Others.When the disorganized chaos of things makes itSo.Damn.Simple.To Simplify, Poeticize,Yet so hard to understand,Now tell me,Where is it appropriate to ask?
IndecisionBANG. And with that the earth began to age.And with each added wrinkle, new pathways began to appear;New decisions, with new alternate futures to ignore,And to let die out without a thought.Because once a thought is spent on thosePossibilitiesAlternate lives,Tranquility and pattern isdead.POW.And so I can begin to understand, why it's So hardFor this planet to hold on to lifeWhen so many decisions are jettisonedLike a Political Border, not aware of howOne square mile difference could save a life orkill it.CRACK.Or lives.And that's why I decided to make it a goal of mineTo detail every last possibilitywordBefore destroying the others.After all, it's only those who first thinkWho can truly justify Indecision.Bam.
Room 18Martha Smith of room 18Lived alone(With imaginary cats)And enjoyedWatching rainRi p p l eAS IT STRUCKThe ground withA graceful soundBut thereWasNoRippleFor Martha Smith,Because shelivedin room 18
MysteriesThe extent of thinking isNow no more thanPredictionOf MovementsOf ThoughtsOf FeelingsWhen a minute of freerThought can explainThose complexitiesOf Life.As laws, not nur theorems.