To be a writer it is not enough
That the aperture of your mind be forever open wide
That you sheepishly stick a stethoscope to your overwrought heart
That you inflate experience with your every breathe.
To capture life's every pixel,
Every stroke of light
Every strand of sound
Every shred of emotion.
That you find yourself constantly
at the brink of cross-eyed delirium
Capable of letting the world fizzle
into rainbow oblivion.
All life is but raw material for memory,
All writing but proof of lonely thought.
Till you make room for one more,
on your solitary merry-go-round.
Till your words can make their world spin
and thoughts gush about like wind in their ears.
That the aperture of your mind be forever open wide
That you sheepishly stick a stethoscope to your overwrought heart
That you inflate experience with your every breathe.
To capture life's every pixel,
Every stroke of light
Every strand of sound
Every shred of emotion.
That you find yourself constantly
at the brink of cross-eyed delirium
Capable of letting the world fizzle
into rainbow oblivion.
All life is but raw material for memory,
All writing but proof of lonely thought.
Till you make room for one more,
on your solitary merry-go-round.
Till your words can make their world spin
and thoughts gush about like wind in their ears.
