Once a Writer

It used to flow
out of me and through me
over me & under, all at once
No need to channel it
It was just there
all the time
I couldn’t turn it off

My mind was a real chatterbox
(I am scatterbrain preparing for liftoff)
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, ……

Sometimes it was a torrent
full blast
Sometimes a slow drip, drip, drip, drip
or a fast drip
sometimes a drippity drip drop
but always dripping

I didn’t even have to ask questions
It was the juice
asking the questions
My soul juice

I still got the soul juice
I will always have that
OK, maybe not when I die, but I think
maybe it will just change shape
I can neither confirm nor deny
I am not dead yet

My soul flow is a little more viscous these days
slower to move
and sometimes it feels like it aint moving
at all

My imagination is a little quieter
And I have to put in some effort
work at it
And maybe that’s better
to court creativity intentionally
to ask her some questions
instead of having no choice

I’ve got to create time
to write
I still want to be a writer
Express myself and tell my stories

But it is a choice
I have to ask myself
No longer am I a chosen one
No longer a medium to madness
I used to be a real EMF, RAM, Mother Fer
There were glitter and sunrays
in my electromagnetic field
It had spikes and waves and soft edges
and all the betweens

I opened all the windows and doors on my
soul house
and let the light shine in

and shine out

And I would just write & write & write
In the mornings and into the night
and somewhere in the betweens

It was so easy
necessary to keep me (in)sane

It was like I had cartoon
angels and demons on my shoulders
whispering love poems and dark soliloquies
of longing in the multiverse
of flowers in bloom and pain in the heart
little angel-demons whispering
“We are all going to die,
tell her how beautiful her eyes are.”

Only the angels and demons were just
me
Thinking and breathing
fiending desperately to feel
to feel everything
to feel nothing

Yes, nowadays it takes a little more juice
and I’m OK with that
I have to take some time out
from the “TIME FLIES”
and put it aside, on my desk
and try and write something that tells a story

No longer does it force its way
out of me
It’s different now
than throwing my blood on the wall
seeing what would stick

And that’s alright

I was once a writer
and I still am too

I hope so