There are teachers because some haven't discovered the language to describe their very experience of life-living.
We're all here just trying to describe this experience, yet we've likened to the idea of word matter.
The solid form of phrases and stories- and the labeling of this or that.
We've mastered the art of distinct and descriptive grouping and categorizing.
And all our characteristics and humanly symptoms describe what you are made of, what you can do, and who you are.
All according to computer generated quizzes and physic interpretations from outside sources.
This- all very fine, but...
There is this Spirit that fuels every minute detail vibrating pure existence into the infinite waves of life. Into:
A rock.
A stick.
A baby.
A butterfly.
A dust particle.
Your lovers laugh.
The noise of the train sliding against it's tracks.
It is in everything. It is everywhere. In every crevice. Every beam, music note, every flower's breath and every hidden nothing.
We should not limit this experience to paragraphs, grammar checks, stuck writing teachers or roadblocked writers that carry bows and arrows.
Misspelling is required, in fact it is part of the expression- so full and alive, a new language is birthed.
Art speak.
Animal translation.
Hand language.
Dance dialect.
Music talk.
Mother prose.
Nature tounge.
Words can no longer give it name. It's substance is too rich.
It makes my eyes close as my pen dances on smooth paper with mountains of line. A world of its own. Setting free word matter, trying to describe this very experience.
It makes my heart stir, my bones rocks, my soul jump and my spirit flutter.
I must move.
I must move in graceful juxtapose.
I must move.
I must move my body to it's ionic rhythm and allow my hair to funnel and shake away all of the unnecessary letters.
It has simply outgrown verbal language. It can no longer fit that template. It has outgrown it's roots and is ready to rise above.
It spreads it wings.
It only has wings. Watch it fly.
There it is flying.
Flying...you see.
As it should. As you can be.
~Melissa Ixcheldevi ©2012
We're all here just trying to describe this experience, yet we've likened to the idea of word matter.
The solid form of phrases and stories- and the labeling of this or that.
We've mastered the art of distinct and descriptive grouping and categorizing.
And all our characteristics and humanly symptoms describe what you are made of, what you can do, and who you are.
All according to computer generated quizzes and physic interpretations from outside sources.
This- all very fine, but...
There is this Spirit that fuels every minute detail vibrating pure existence into the infinite waves of life. Into:
A rock.
A stick.
A baby.
A butterfly.
A dust particle.
Your lovers laugh.
The noise of the train sliding against it's tracks.
It is in everything. It is everywhere. In every crevice. Every beam, music note, every flower's breath and every hidden nothing.
We should not limit this experience to paragraphs, grammar checks, stuck writing teachers or roadblocked writers that carry bows and arrows.
Misspelling is required, in fact it is part of the expression- so full and alive, a new language is birthed.
Art speak.
Animal translation.
Hand language.
Dance dialect.
Music talk.
Mother prose.
Nature tounge.
Words can no longer give it name. It's substance is too rich.
It makes my eyes close as my pen dances on smooth paper with mountains of line. A world of its own. Setting free word matter, trying to describe this very experience.
It makes my heart stir, my bones rocks, my soul jump and my spirit flutter.
I must move.
I must move in graceful juxtapose.
I must move.
I must move my body to it's ionic rhythm and allow my hair to funnel and shake away all of the unnecessary letters.
It has simply outgrown verbal language. It can no longer fit that template. It has outgrown it's roots and is ready to rise above.
It spreads it wings.
It only has wings. Watch it fly.
There it is flying.
Flying...you see.
As it should. As you can be.
~Melissa Ixcheldevi ©2012
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