The music of what happens

I write what I know. Sometimes sentimental, sometimes dark, at times so saccharine the caries set in and it’ll rot before the ink dries. I write what I hear. The constant conversation between my brain and itself. Tuning in? Stream of consciousness? “Write what you know” they say. Fuck ’em, I will write what I hear. What I live. What I think could be true. What I have paid for in “Blood Sweat Tears”, to be trite. My ‘voice’ may not be the polished & perfected, idyllically crafted, make the angels cry tears of verklemptedness. But it’s Mine. And it has long demanded -OUT- and so, here goes. This year. 40. Voice it. No matter if there’s an audience. No matter if all that’s said is trite diatribe. Not all writing is Shakespeare or Yeats, Plath, hell even Viorst.  But it’s mine. And it’s valid. And it has waited patiently for permission to be heard for far too long. I’ve paid my dues in pain. Time to let the joy out. And the Raw. And the messy. And the imperfect. And to hell with the voice of programming that says “NOT GOOD ENOUGH” yet “DO- or DO NOT”. And the DO-NOT has run out of time. My voice IS the RAW. It IS the messy journal with crossed out lines and it IS the “voice” of messy struggle with trying to find the “right” words. The ‘right’ ones are the ones that come. They are the ones that exhale in the ASMR of my pencil across the page. HB No.2, sharpened, wearing down, hand cramped. Real. Raw. Unfiltered. And sometimes Polished. Sure. But mostly, unmasked.

K.D.W. Dec 31/18 (Raw)

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