i was born to create.

i was born to
give birth to
threads of thoughts,
trickling from this tongue
and onto the ground, in hopes
that they then seep
into Mother.
and from her womb,
life may spread
containing remnants
of those fragmented filaments
conceived within these
confused skull-bones.

in this constant
confused condition
i create figments
of your imagination.
like athena, thoughts pour
out of this split crown,
and into your mouth
so that you may
swallow these words
and ponder upon them—
or, perhaps,
spit them
right back out.

in this nascency,
words are brought
into existance—
words that have always existed,
words that
will always exist.
living words are forced
into a rebirth—
my very own
little Renaissance—
so that they may
feel new meaning
from this vessel.

i am a vessel.
my body is a cesspool
of letters
and words.
and sentences and paragraphs.
and stanza after stanza,
novel after novel.
i am only a host,
so that i may
take these units
and defibrillate them
through ink
and paper.

i write.
i put meaning to
the confusion that
forever taints this brain.
and i spit it onto paper
and hope and pretend
that it makes sense.
i write because i fear
becoming fat,
engorged with thoughts
that i so desperately
need to

i was born for this.
i was born for bondage—
these words, my masters.
boiling words bubble
fevering for release,
eager for new life.
i was born to be the medium
through which letters
become words
become giants.
i was born
to live
by the pen.