Once again I'm home alone on my porcelain thrown,
contemplating all the thoughts that be clouding my dome,
my mind roams quite sporadically,
decipher matters oh so masterfully,
but inadequately equipt to deal with this false reality.
So I only deal with actuality and the truly tangible,
and attack my inner demons like unruly animals.
Then I channel my flows from concepts to creation,
it's amazing that inspiration could come from constipation.
The same concentration used to expel excrement,
is the same amount of intensity I use to pen my sentiments
on this spiral pad, when I'll lounging in the lab.
Or laboratory, another day another story,
the ideals that I jot are just merely exploratory.
But alas they give me glory and always fill a mental void,
yet there's always been a mystery that makes me oh so paranoid.
When I sit I'm fully clothed with my pants around the ankle,
but somehow unconsciously my garments never seem to be
as they were when I took my pen and pad up off the mantle.
By the end of my visit and after I've handled the specifics,
I sit atop my thrown as bare as the paper was before I scripted it so exquisite.
I can't remember ever taking off my clothes
but my theory is, I have to feel physically free to let my thoughts flow
to accurately convey the ideas in free verse that I compose.
Who knows,
that's just my ideology not based on real psychology,
but makes **** good sense to me.
So I'll continue to drop these lines from my white tiled place with care,
until I find another home to replace my thinking chair.
Copyright 2005
© Ramarla D. Rozier
Kiastar inc. Krate Creations publishing
contemplating all the thoughts that be clouding my dome,
my mind roams quite sporadically,
decipher matters oh so masterfully,
but inadequately equipt to deal with this false reality.
So I only deal with actuality and the truly tangible,
and attack my inner demons like unruly animals.
Then I channel my flows from concepts to creation,
it's amazing that inspiration could come from constipation.
The same concentration used to expel excrement,
is the same amount of intensity I use to pen my sentiments
on this spiral pad, when I'll lounging in the lab.
Or laboratory, another day another story,
the ideals that I jot are just merely exploratory.
But alas they give me glory and always fill a mental void,
yet there's always been a mystery that makes me oh so paranoid.
When I sit I'm fully clothed with my pants around the ankle,
but somehow unconsciously my garments never seem to be
as they were when I took my pen and pad up off the mantle.
By the end of my visit and after I've handled the specifics,
I sit atop my thrown as bare as the paper was before I scripted it so exquisite.
I can't remember ever taking off my clothes
but my theory is, I have to feel physically free to let my thoughts flow
to accurately convey the ideas in free verse that I compose.
Who knows,
that's just my ideology not based on real psychology,
but makes **** good sense to me.
So I'll continue to drop these lines from my white tiled place with care,
until I find another home to replace my thinking chair.
Copyright 2005
© Ramarla D. Rozier
Kiastar inc. Krate Creations publishing