This Is Not Poetry.

“Nice poetry.”

Said my friend, upon reading What Walking Barefoot Feels Like.

This is not poetry!

This is the fingers dancing!

Effortlessly!

When the soul is singing, it writes!

What comes out, is what comes out.

Perhaps this is poetry after all.

But see.

Right there.

Labels!

Humans love labelling things!

And that’s how you miss it!

Logicifying everthing.

Ha!

Poetry is an accident.

Trying to do poetry is like trying not to think of the purple elephant.

Don’t think about it.

Don’t think about the purple elephant.

Don’t think about the purple elephant.

Don’t think about the purple elephant.

Are you thinking about the purple elephant?

Ha!

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

This is following a system.

It doesn’t come from you.

So spread those wings!

Write what’s true.

Only for you.

Let it spill out.

Forget the clout.

If the rhymes ain’t comin, let it be!

There ain’t no rules here.

Rules are for fools.

In school they taught me about stanzas.

Life taught me that stanzas can be forgotten.

What’s a stanza?

Heck if I know!

Poetry.

Ah, yes…

You know?

It just comes out.

Convincing seems silly.

You just write.

The song is sung.

The sung is song.

Ahh….

Sing song sing song wong.

Ding.

Dong.

Donkey Kong.

64.

Margerie Door!

Lists and steps and tuts and orders.

I’d rather it without all the borders.

Art and music and paint and fun!

What more could I want?

A hot cross BUN!

To the reader I consider that this is more than a yidder.

What I feel is not for sale even to the highest bidder.

An auction for feeling?

I don’t think so.

But a free sharing for all is the way I must go.

It’s not an option, it’s a flowing flow-flow.

Flow it must!

Flow it might!

Have a taste of vegemite!

The joy is here.

The joy is there.

The next line is obvious.

The joy is everywhere!

How did we get here?

We just wrote.

We wrote and we wrote until we didn’t.