These thoughts whisk themselves
in the bowl of my skull: a quiet
righteousness, pacing restless in
its room, its hands grabbing onto
nothing; how my tongue is slowly
curling backwards onto itself;
my voice falling into the pit of
my throat. There is so much
I can do little about that I wish
I were God. I wish I were powerful.
Poetry is always a desire for control,
and its manifestation. I want it.
I want it. This is the one true holy word,
etched between every disc in our spine.
If poetry is control then these words
are a room. I’ve shut the doors,
shuttered the windows. The world
of the everyday is lost in here –
all in here is but theoretical,
with no rules for grammar
but the ones we choose to make do.
In this room there will be no anger,
no riling of fists against the beating
beating beating heart of capitalism,
no gutter punch drunk pulsing pulsing pulsing
people who only set themselves up for disappointment.
To have control is to relinquish it all,
Righteousness muses, his footsteps
having worn a line into the hardwood.
I cannot do anything and I need to accept that.
I need to, but I am working on that
I swear I swear I swear I swear.
The world is awful and I am learning to be awful too
but I am failing. My hands raise themselves
against nothing. I cannot avert my eyes.
I want it. I need it. I swear I swear I swear.

Freewriting Explanation: Every day, Valen shall use 5 minutes to write completely unprompted and uninterrupted, letting the words lead the way. There is no end purpose to each piece, but rather, the pieces are allowed to develop naturally in their own way. The pieces are then uploaded without edits.