i remember a writer named Lori, i'm not of her last name, commenting that "as a writer, we can only hope for 1 or 2 people to endure our company, and take something positive from it." she urged me, almost made me promise that if given the chance, that i would keep my writing honest, and spoken from within. writing, poetry, prose, enlightenment, escatic love, soul, or the truth (whatever one calls it) - in the end, names don't matter. my words are written, not in packets and batches of art, or 16 bar verses of banter, but as part of a constant, practical, and mysterious discourse I am having with both myself, and with the universe. it is no easy task trying to turn the everyday into esoteric. the growth is my second journey towards home. this is the anticipation after depression, expanding after contraction. the sun comes out, and that light is what we give. i hope that my words act almost as an inheritance to my spiritual descendants.
some go first, and others come long afterward. G.d blesses both, and all in line, and replaces what has been consumed.
"This poetry, I never know what I'm going to say. I don't plan it. When I am outside of saying it, I get very quiet and rarely speak at all."
Mentally, why do we stay in prison when the door is so wide open? Let us all move outside the tangle of fear-thinking and hatred. Live in silence. Let the art speak.
I need a mouth as wide as the sky to say what it is my heart. The tongue has one customer - the ear. But I cannot tell - Are these words or tears?
Sincerely,
Anthony J. Shears
