Older and Complex

As my writing
 grows older and complex,
I more and more
want to write something simple,
straightforward, to the heart of some point.
As the crow flies so to speak.
Not up and down the mountains, dragging
people through the brambles along the way.
But in a F-14 jet with all the power and clarity
of a vertical takeoff, a safe landing, an exhilarating ride.
Without the long hours in the shop,
pouring over each detail, sanding, measuring, then recutting
when I inevitably fuck up. Applying a glaze,
then another layer, sanding, then painting, then painting again.
A 1 stop shop, click, cart, buy, receive in mail and enjoy.
And thats enough of that.

My heart or mind, which I often confuse,
is empty of desire to write, yet soothed
at the same time. I feel compelled to
continue... A long forgotten thought is still
a thought and my mind will always
want to think it.

I find I learn so much through words,
and thinking about them. Each sentence
can be read many ways, each paragraph
many more. Each time
maybe even with a  different meaning.
There is much hidden that in words,
that leads to new thoughts and discovery.
The words are the conduit for thought,
but often times feelings get lost along the way.
I used to write my feelings down, but
its been so long.

I'm out of practice, not time, god damnit!

Typically I wouldn't publish this rubbish, but
I'll soon delete these ramblings in favor of fine wine.

One old friend once said to me, write whatever comes to mind.
I wrote about a fish
trapped in a bowl,
looking out, swimming in circles,
seeing a cage that was so thin, so breakable,
but unable to escape.
Perhaps I felt this way, I wonder what I would have written today.
let us find out,

A mind blank,
as each flashing thought
is deemed worthless and killed at birth.
My arms weakening
rebelling
 as they judge my words unworthy
not willing to hold my hands to type,

paralyzed, I am paralyzed. Dear god,
my self-confidence could use
some steroids.