We look to the sky and think about rainbows, although nobody knows why we think about rainbows. The idea seems borne of psychedelia, or of drugs, or of some sort of substance that makes us not in our right mind.
I cannot begin to imagine why we do this. It is a mystery to me, much like Scooby Doo and the gang, solving mysteries in the mystery machine. Again, the drugs are a factor in this. But do I write under this influence? I cannot say.
I feel as if I write to write right. I feel like a song borne on the air, borne on angel’s wings.
Someday I will become a pretty butterfly on the wing of a dragon. Until then, I exist in this moment of peace and doubt and change. Love is the answer. Love is the answer. Be my guide.
Another worrisome event. I run and run and run but never stop to breathe or catch my breath. My legs are rubber, yet I keep running.
Something in the way she moves makes me young again, but I cannot grasp it. Come on and feel the noise and let girls rock your boys. Song lyrics are a muse for inspiration, and grammar is a joke.
Structure is a tool of the devil and capitalism. Poetry comes from within, stream of consciousness, love your robotic lords and masters.
Kill for Nike. Kill for Exxon. Run to the hills. Take no quarter.
Will you be mine? Will you be mine, Mr. Rogers?
Balderdash. Fill my soul with fire. Fill my lungs with fire. Let me stand next to your curse and torment. I rub my brow in exasperation, knowing that all is lost.
You know this to be true. You know this to be valid.
Author notes
I wrote this for a free-writing exercise in my Creative Writing course.
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