Transition of Means

As time goes on I've begun to find that my most effective means of expression is no longer what it used to be.

Once I thought that my pencil pushing pretty pictures from my sketchbook

Was my catalyst

To the emancipation of my emotional constipation

But

My spirit is no longer satisfied with my innate ability to act as

Human copy machine or conduit for creative thought.

I have discovered that homeostasis is an illusion

Like the horizon it’s an imaginary line that recedes as you approach it

My internal equilibrium remains tilted

And I increasingly become more dysfunctional with each passing day

Unless my pencils start hitting paper

And start leaving incandescent footprints in the sand dunes of my mind

Ensuring that I can see my way through the whirlwinds of my internal conflict

As long as I can see my footprints

I can think my way out

My words become successive hits of truth serum

 Injected directly into the artery connecting my body to my third eye

My new found use for my pencils to create art and expression has calmed my tumultuous disposition

 Transmogrifying my storm cloud thoughts into flows of life blood spilled from cognitive battles long fought

Thoughts now willing to be shared and made collective experience

Willing to teach

To spark

Insight

Inspire

But first and foremost

To unleash the beast of my pent up desire

No longer sustained or satisfied with pencil pushing pretty pictures

 I turn to poetry and the pleasures of exciting word amalgam.