in the other room

Crazy noises:
Guitar, eagles, guns and questions.
Heartbeats, silences, screams and beeps,
Bracketed by plastic music.
fun
empty

All I want to do is write
but I cannot.
Not because of the cacophony.
At least,
not because of the one outside.

To write is to soar,
freer than an eagle,
on thermals high above consciousness;
To take a breath and paint
thoughts as words
before your eyes.
To see with your mind
then speak with your hands.
To create worlds of words;
to pronounce judgment with sentences;
to evince what you desire.

To write would be freedom,
But a stream of consciousness
is all I can muster.
True beauty is wrought of control,
of the deft motions of an artisan's hands
and not of wanton release.
I aspire to gracefulness in words,
to create worlds of my own,
to see sweet black on marvellous white
unfolding the myriad colours of imagination -
my imagination -
before me.