what makes us live as if transfixed
frozen from the insides
breathing slowly
sitting,,, still,,,
no one thinking of you
where you are
what you are doing
you manifest into a white light
what makes us unable to function
frozen within our steps
breathing blackness
sitting,,, listening,,, waiting
no one speaking of
where you have not been
what you will do
you hide within the walls
of the shadow
every breath you take
thins the atmosphere
shrinks in dimensions
who is this alien
absorbing all the oxygen
squeezing out all of life
we have come to know
Widowed Without A Manual 
And ditto, a gorgeous piece.
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You might have experienced at some point. Is it the intensity of a poem desperate to be released? Sometimes I wonder if we are just the medium in which poems speak.
Thank goodness for poets, and writers, and artist! Scientists, free thinkers.
Thank you Steve 🙂
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Yes, I have, particularly when I started writing. I think we have many layers, we are complicated and we don’t appreciate what’s within us that wants to come out. With my early writing I didn’t understand until much later what I was trying to tell myself.
Another writer once told me about tulpas: independent entities in the mind, with a basis in meditative visions. Although she believed they were real, I have my doubts, but again I do think that it might be the mind revealing its secrets.
My pleasure as always, Tamaya.
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