Random utterence of wordart
projected for no reason
other, perhaps,
then for its own sake

So many thoughts


and. Emotions
running through ones head.
I cant quiet remember, what life was like
without it.

Counterpoint; (to what?) the deliberate structure of the words.
Encompassing rythm? Validating artyness?

Perhaps. No. More nessesary from the inside viewpoint.

One thing can be called obvious. The confusion that is meant from me.

Enough, I will have no more. Continue the original, and escape the knwoledge status quo.

A simple warning, degenrating into standard thinking patterns.

If the auther analyzes his own script, whilst it is being generated, does it loose its validity to the mire of critisim? Can wordart be art if every word is carefully constructed? Or must it flow. Flow without hinderence and mercy.

Lonely thoughts, self pereptuating emotion of doubt. What, will ever, thus it goes.

Then why not I say? Throw caution to the wind, and hopefully someone will pick it up and nurture it back to health, as it rightly deserves.

Ramblings? Hah. Defy. That is all I ask. Unless, perchance, I ask you something else

But this, is another story. For another time.


End poem.

Here.