Whisp of the Wind

    Gentle breeze caresses my face

                                             Enfolding with a sensation I could not quite decipher

                                                   But one which tingles to the very core of my being.

                                                            Dwelling in a yonder world concealed from me

                                                                    Yet able to jaw intimate secrets

                                            I  still can apperceive the murmurs of your heart

                                                       through the Whispers of the Wind

*** etched deep within; earned an exemption from HS Lit Finals

Scattered Catharsis

how does one even begin to collect random thoughts scampering in and out of one's consciousness?  maybe it is not in there that one gathers his juices...

i can faintly remember one definition of literature once read: "a spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions" --- could probably pick up from the E - emotions definitely leave an imprint! they pump those "poke" moments for a pen to start doodling.  ever wonder why sometimes a scent brings a memory from the past? not because your nostrils are flared but because it stirs an embedded moment of old. a color-combination could flash a distinct picture from a distant past not because you've laser sharp eyes but again, feelings were stirred up.

putting letters together, forming words, creating ideas, sharing one's self is yet again a catharsis; a purging of deep-seated "scatters" waiting to be unearthed...