Pull over

Pull over

blackheartI think it just hit me. Something else. Someone else getting words. Words that I live by. I wake up in the morning with a thought to express. To convey to the outside world. I focus on the task at hand and save those small sentiments of merriment for one specific face. The reaction. The realization. The emotion those words inspire and I focus on giving that gift to you. Franctic episodes on discourse and discontent that seem only to be calmed by the sound of my voice. Sound produced by words thought. And somehow you figure…feel…fret…that words is what ends us. Words is what began us. Sitting in a tower of them…with silk sheets created to hold them…sold them…wrote them….roped them…gathered and congregated amongst us before we became…before us divided and you say just words.

No sentiment can be told what is once it has left the lips of its home. It is received with the arms open wide and warm inside. Our only control is in the choice to give or not to give. And while Christmas may be months away or may never return, the memory of the gift, the lingering sentiment they hold is in a word – everpresent –

So I stutter¬†about looking for the words to express the sentiment behind this silent heart that bleeds definition and has no one to write this love tale to and you say to me that I will always always always always love love love love love love… another word and I just

keep stuttering

trying to find

trying to stumble over

who I used to be since

all I have are the fucking words

and nothing left to say…



treeI’m loving this Maxwell.

I love how egocentric people can be. And before you say it, no there is a different. Egocentrics not only have an ego but have a complex that allows them to only consider their ego. You see my ego is very well aware that it usually never the only ego in the room, however it may sometimes, on rare occasions be convinced that it is the only ego that matters.

You know what I don’t have the inspiration to finish that because its not really what I want to say but what I want to say would be kicking a dead horse.

I will say this, I have the good books, the Jimmy James Baldwin, Sylvia Prath, Aristotle and Albert Camus waiting on me as soon as this semester ends. Then I can indulge in the literary orgy that has me writhing in intellectual orgasms. And by the time I have come across that sentence, that idea, that theory that sends me over the edge I will look back and have volumes of original oneness to show for it.

The thought does my heart so good.


Dew, twitches.