The Blueprint

I have done mental calisthenics the past few days, moving from malaise to a cool detachment about my writing. It is an intricate craft, at times much like wearing stilettos heels while walking across cobblestone streets. There are threadbare principles between creativity and forensic truths. Writers are either Angelic Muses or Menaces. The largess we derive from blending thought into viable prose or poetry comes with a calculated risk. We can receive baubles for our efforts or a tempered flogging.

The realization that blackbirds do not always fly is the poetic version of any myth.

There is a blueprint to creativity, a pale reflection of our perceptions that begins with intention. Often we are in a strange precognitive state when moving our fingertips across the keyboard. Other times it feels as if I am in captivity. I am forced to pry open an inner door that is not always safe.

Why am I giving you a conceptual anatomy lesson?

It seems that my last blog moved many people to tears or anger. I received bouquets of red or blackened roses. I honor them equally, even if my premise was misunderstood. This is the reason why we write, to make fever's dance or blossoms grow.

While still inside the spin of my vertigo, I put on my best pearls and wait. A lover will come, my pear tree will bloom or someone will push me into bloodied waters. It is all the same. Poets sleep a different sleep. We cannot lose our voices if someone screams too loudly. Words have delicate arms but a strong embrace. There are echoes amongst the shadows. I will continue to create and somehow endure.