MIND: Vocal

Stop aspiring and start writing.
If you’re writing, you’re a writer.
Write like you’re a goddamn death row inmate and
the governor is out of the country and there’s no chance for a pardon.
Write like you’re clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles,
on your last breath, and you’ve got just one last thing to say,
like you’re a bird flying over us and you can see everything,
and please, for God’s sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves.
Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret,
so we can wipe our brow and know that we’re not alone.
Write like you have a message from the king. Or don’t.

// Alan Wilson Watts

SOL: Mercy

The seaside home post
Hurricane; windows knocked in with
Loving tenderness, glass
Causing explosions of light across
A night sky that raucously
Applauds the natural disaster.
Shingles all but blown off, flapping
Half-heartedly in the breeze, a sad
Showing of resilience.
Door open for the world to see, hiding
Nothing yet the curtains are drawn
On the windows, false modesty.
Protecting the destruction inside as
The water trickles in, soaking the
Stairs with unstoppable power.

3AM Thoughts // AKA “I Am That House.”

SOL: Apprehensive

If only I had been
Brave enough to trust
My own path, except I couldn’t
Help but to look back, hand-feeding my
Insatiable desires, mimicking Orpheus’ most
Loving betrayal

3AM Thoughts // AKA “Strong Enough To Stand On My Own.”

MIND: Illusion

The sailor dreamt of a woman
who stared at the sea, then tired
of it, advertised her freedom.
She said to her friend: I want
all the fire one can have
without being consumed by it.
Clearly, I dreamt the woman too.

The Snowmass Cycle // Stephen Dunn

MIND: Obscurity

I sometimes wish that I had been born in some obscure corner of the world… In Iceland, perhaps, or some South Sea Island, where one could live a normal life without being part of the great insane world struggles.

// Sylvia Plath