automatic

"this is the life, this is the ground

here comes the warm machine" *

I was told when I was younger

and things made more sense

that if you want to affect the reader

write as though you're speaking to them

for so long this made perfect sense

but over time (God, it seems like eons)

my thoughts became fragmented

easily spoken, seldom understood

fragments

writing became a string of thoughts

line after line,

pieces of mind

sadly, unless you know me

these pieces don't/won't fit

you don't understand!

the pauses get longer and longer

the inflections ever more profound

as you search for the words

to complete a thought...

but never entirely

because just as a voice needs an ear

a thought needs inspiration

the idea that something

could be more than it appears

(more than meets the eye)

that it bears looking into, checking out

what inspires you?

inspiration is an homage to hope

use it or lose it people

hope...faith.......trust................?

so as you read these lines I write

and you try to make sense of the chaos

the graffiti covered walls of my mens room

look, to understand my rant

you need to get close to hear the (whisper)

this is where the juicy stuff is

I'm not speaking in tongues

(am I?)

if you don't know the dialect

the meaning can be lost

in translation

so get down here...real close....closer still

that's it

I can feel your breath on my neck

so sexy

can you hear me now?

good

I wish you would listen

I need you to feel (me)

let's break it down...

(watch your step)

these words come at a cost

a price I'll gladly pay

(how much to cross the river, sir?)

nothing else in my life is

automatic

* from the song "Warm Machine", by Bush