Lift a pen; this becomes the knife. Using the very tip of the blade, gently poke at one small, yet sensitive part of the heart. When the tip of the blade has thoroughly plunged deep into the soul, simply stand back and watch the blood flow onto the blank pages before you. Words may be formed from the droplets; some perceptible, many not. Pay no mind to any tears, they fall only to wash away the phrases not needed and words already spoken. The procedure may take minutes, maybe hours, perhaps years. But the blood will stop running, and the tears will have eliminated unnecessary thoughts. What is left in front of you is a rhythmical novel, penned in your own self. This is poetry.
November 17, 2011