I write for no reason, a reason to write
Though writing is reason, not reason is right
Is writing to reason so brilliantly bright
If it’s ordered to please them?
A brightness of slight…
Lyrically twisting a meaning of mine
Is meaning resisting a twisting in time
To find a new line in this instance of time
Is twisted and misted for you to call mine.
To struggle for something to say is a silly succession of thoughts and that comes from the brain.
To be smart is not art and that comes from the heart:
This brightness is more like a game of empirical play with the literal frame that’s mundane and so horribly tame when not played in a way –
Satirical, lyrical, verging on fictional
Turning things on to their heads without visual stimulus, mirror us, words are the play
Reflection won’t mention what you had to say.
Instead, what you said
Was it turned on its head,
Or heading to turn the right way?