This time I agreed to work it out in the dark. I didn’t feel like hitting random returns to make the spaces. How does that make it more poetic anyway? But I’ll still do it subsequently to this poem. When you read my works, do you take them literally? Half the time, you’re wondering ‘what does he mean by that?’ Well, half the time I don’t know myself – I just know the words look good together.

The words look good together, so why do they have to mean anything? But if you must assign meaning, assign your own. I like writing that means different things to different people, and I don’t consider any of them wrong. Barren. Empty. Random one-word sentences. How can this staccato delivery be anything but word bullets, designed to create larger openings in your soul. Openings in your psyche. Openings in your brain for me to fill with whatever words I feel like stuffing in there. And your own head digests the meaning, and you gain whatever sustenance from that that results.

Whatever sustenance results? Nature. Nurture. Outside forces and influence. The staccato seems more like a list now, and that is intentional. The three things that could make you feel something, think something, believe something. And the only question is:

Which one of those am I?

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