The Paranoiac, Panicking Pen

A free-write setting of my tent
a stream of consciousness attempt
to glean from my inner
my id
my i.d.
my idea
that facility to put out when I can
and not step on my own toes
or get in my own way.

Attempting here to KEEP clicking here
and hoping that thoughts will keep up
with my digital dexterity
and carpal capability.

The stanza shift, THIS stanza shift
a completely intuitive impulse -
and I'm still waiting
for some meaningful theme to take form.
Perhaps, in a meta-writing sort of way,
the subject is the writing itself,
and the writing is thus the subject.

Is there a line to be drawn
between the paralyzed depression
that causes the pen to sleep
for days and days and weeks and weeks,
and the mania that compels one to put down whatever will go down for fear that the alternative inaction and inertia is this next time going to be inescapable and thus lead to the death of verbosity and the death of possibility and the death of serenity and ultimately the death of...

Me?

And so I keep on typing
having yet thought that maybe
several words ago
or several gestures ago
or several years ago
would have been
a more poetic
and artistic
and intelligent
place to end.

But to end?

To END!

Ugh...what I fear is the inability to begin again.
The blank page
the clean slate
the empty gesture
the stainless soul.

How does a hollow heart
pump the life-giving blood
both red and read?

When soul's and flesh's blood is spilled
and skin and bone and breath is killed
and finite fancy's fun fulfilled,
what mystery comes to part
to heal and hold a fearful heart
and bridge that gap between the living and the dead?