A Sponge in a Fist

I keep probably too many journals at this point. Does that mean I have too many thoughts and not enough words, or the other way around? Not enough action? Who knows. What I do know, I was reading through a "spiritual journal" of mine the other day, and there were a couple good excerpts.

This first one was written with poeticalness in mind. I'd heard a guy preforming what he calls "Spoken Word" which is poetry that is written to be spoken, very rhythm intentional. Similar to rap in many respects, yet without the conventions that follow from music. I thought about him for a long time, and during church while I was dosing off again, I wrote this.

Myself

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I hit the clock pound the books grind the nose where I'm to go there can be no soul. It's choked, erased, and extracted with care and time leaving nothing but a filmy grime.

The place to where I trek, there's no going back no respite. A wheel unhinged, an American unbinged. Impossible. I realize the size of my disguise leaves no room to contrive another lie inside the time that I have to Die.

God, You become the sweat the tears drawn out of pain and uncertainty. Pressured forth like a sponge in a fist or puss from a cyst Why is this so? Why are You not my everything my everytime that when I fall up not down, I realize the Source instead of drown in the impossible drone of industry and sound?

Pressure me into You so instead of forgetting or running, into You I find my source for divorce from life so contorted.

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