What longing!
Such an urge, from my gut
and from each part of my body
to write, to spill.
And where and how?
Why?
For art or self,
or love or ego?
What veiled satisfaction is it
that I crave?
Again, I ask,
for love?
Is it love of art,
the art of self,
or is it some tangled self love,
some ego-sexual act;
the ejaculation of words
and imagined facets of I am this,
know me.
I project deepness when in truth
I am a seeker.
I am a small child.
I have such a hunger,
and such a ways to go.
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