Photo by Kira auf der Heide on Unsplash
Drop the Pressure, Rocked to the Core
the weight of ink is hard to ignore
Once again, to the trestleboard, drawing on inspiration, sacredness, made up and foolishness to the others makes no sense, nor does it matter. Sitting within the cosmic wonder, voided reality, the blackened dawning of true-self set out to throw down mighty pens’ weight in gold.
King Midas failed attempts at paradoxical paradise, creating sound through quill dipped in most durable ink. Carbon black, streaks across the page, bound by various elementals, inspirit-filled dancing constellations foretold by the guides.
There it was a striking blow, thoracic inlet spewing lactic acid all over the rhomboid majoris, uncontained, spreading at will, oh the pain and suffering if not yet checked at the door. Painfully written story-lines upon flesh inked up tales of yesterday, yesteryear’s traumatic memories of child-bearing or ballgames at the sandlot-like settings.
If not for the pleasant and distastefully yours truly engaged in and out of the playing field, I would not be swinging this mighty pen, throwing down yet again. Did I repeat myself? Cyclical exchange, unlearned scenarios, matters not whether it is understood, merely learning from the chapter written before.
Crushed by the heel, shedding tears of fragrant beauty, Mark Twain quoted forgiveness and violets scent carrying through the daily quotes. Self-inflicting songs of past endeavors, band-aided and embedded encoded re-wiring of the brain.
Limpia from limbic to the frontal cortex, tickled amygdala over and above, at the forefront of natural discovery, inner-self awakened beast, choice words blundering and stammering over the next step into time. Once the ‘weight of the world’atop the shouldered girdles of possibility squelched by inner critics, demons of unknown origin but self-made man intending to be seen and not heard, lifted by the next sentence, not of an eight-year sort.
Thoughts becoming things made of trees and dancing bees, written or unspoken, felt before the beginning of time, heart-pounding, burning desire most ardently, re-writing the stars and outcomes shared by wisdom keepers, elders, mastered alchemists of ancient forms. Oh, the pain transfiguring stoned and unturned, longest journey through the soul’s darkened nights, mars landing may prove easier than entryway into hearts own desires.
Yet, The Author in the present tense seeks well-being, unicorns, goddesses, and gods alike. Carried away, lifted to the highest of high, so high, trip unfolding tales of Zeus, Athena, Banjhakri, creating scientific discoveries within the realms Noetic Science and other academia. Spinning infinitely, Mobius strips endless fantasy or real-time discovering self-awareness available all-along.
Drop the pressure, bass booming sounds, rocked to the core, hard to ignore the play-on-words forming at the weight of pens’ mercy. Easing up gas pedal no longer floored, paused reflecting piece of another story-line intertwined and integrated forth to end of days, beginning as it was, given birthright waiting for grasping hand. Now is the time. Drop it like it’s hard.
In the closing song, farewell till then speaking in a foreign tongue, swallowed by ocean’s blanketing melodious embrace, losing oneself to cosmic wonder, self-inflicting, self-realizing, co-created with the help of the simplexes of acme’s pen. Letting go now, the rope around my neck, flying to Never-land, nevermore is what you swore the time before.
~Ani Po
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Much gratitude for those who take time to read, ponder and allow the inner workings of self to come forward. Grateful for the feedback, love shared, and more importantly the Dance with Inspiration. Deep Peace.
Photo by Javardh on Unsplash
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