I stroll... ...three beats slower
Than the hustle and bustle.
Retreating to the Sylvian Fissure,
My constant writing studio.
A room for introspection,
A place where the cold logic of language
Meets my torrent of emotion.
This is where I find pain-free inspiration,
The Paracetamol for the soul,
An Aspirin for the merely blood-pumping muscle.
Here, I can be an indecisive sky,
Not knowing if to rain or shine.
Saddened by a half-formed rainbow,
Mourning the greyness of its lost shadow.
But as the imagery of my words emerges,
And as music is added to the mixture,
The stalactite of my tears falls and crashes,
This...is what saved me from the Torture.
Not concerned with counting syllables,
No fancy structure or rhyme intervals.
I'm not sure if it's poetry or prose,
This...is the window to my soul.
Under this beautiful dusky, vanilla sky,
The world can spin at whatever speed it likes.
I amble, I smile, and...(three beats later ♩♩♩)
...I just write.