To you, my friend, everything I have dreamt of.

My dear invisible reader,
I have been reading some poets who seem to have found new images to capture the meaning of life. For me these poets are holy, they have seen God. This reading has further increased my insane quest to find new ways to say old things. Why will I desire this, well because the old ways of saying, writing, seem empty to me. It has its structures, its laws, its beauty even but its song has been repeated too much and now it rings hollow. See this thing:
In throat of a god, a lion died.
It was a fist the size of a bullet
That swallowed the footprints of worship.
The worshippers had the hunger of waterfalls,
They fed long & deep on the god's prayer.

That must be a poem, it must. I seek to upend grammar without destroying meaning. Have you ever written a poem & broken it apart like a surgeon resetting a shattered bone that healed poorly? Have you ever read a story from the end to the beginning? Can it be done? Can it be done? Witness:

The payer's god fed deep & long on them,
Waterfall of hungers had the worshippers.
The worship of footprints swallowed
A bullet the size of a fist,
A god died in the throat of a lion.

There. Make of it what you will. This thing that I seek haunts me and I have abandoned stories and poems all over my desk, seeking something unreal. I can sense the possibility but I feel like I have taken on too much.

I must leave something behind before I go. The thing to be remembered even if my name becomes forgotten (which is satisfactory, indeed). It is the curse of being human to want to procreate, leave children of the loins, the hands, the mind behind. We so much want to be parents over something. Yet we deny this instinct to create in us. We claim work and toil, ambition and wealth as excuses but do we not work passed reckoning blind to rest, to release?

One novel, one poem, one play is all I seek, the sum total of my dreams, my children. If I can begin to comprehend the love they will return to me even if I never get to see it, have I not added value to your life, my dear invisible reader?

Sometimes while in the fever of creation, as dark as I can be, shadows fluttering at the corner of my eyes, hunger eating my stomach, I think of you, my friend, who will have to read my musings one day and I hunger to see you, to see your face open to the sound of your voice fed with my words. This is a dream, a small seed, a possibility. Maybe I will, maybe I won't but it is nothing. We move.

I don't think I have as much time as I would love to have. I have become listless, bored, staring too long at walls. I am not sleeping much either. Oh well, it is back and forth. At the end, don't you see my paltry attempt as being academic? I can't suffer the ignominy of silence, something must roar forth. It is hard being alive, you know especially when the only thing you can do is write about things only imagined. I really wanted to impress my mom and dad. Maybe there's still time, maybe there's time for all of us to rise from mud & shine some. You would love that, won't you?

I turn now, back to my table, to my addictions, to the fever and sanity in my pen. My friend, I experiment on, magicking on. At the end, all of this, is for you. Is this not what friends do?

Yours always,
Osahon (warpedpoetic)