Writing stops fighting./ As we empty the chambers of our minds, streaming raw un-filtered
emotions through the channels of our pens, our brains become clear; fitted with a new lens.
Muddled thoughts become distilled. Violence turns to silence. Trading anger for kindness, and
sight with blindness, in the intention that we may create hope/ out of this fire that we've
stoked./ I hope I haven't spoken out of turn, but this burn in my lungs/ and the taste on my
tongue, full of bitterness, reminds me why I have chosen a quiet mode of communication
over this. Because noise calcifies the mind./ Never to see what lies behind/ the portal of
discovery called the Pineal Gland./ Secreting the sacred chemical of god that baptized you at
birth. The power present then, is the same one in this pen./ And though words create
illusions, and we feel stuck in our delusions,/ down the rabbit hole we must go./ Let your
spirit knead you like a piece of dough. Molding you into the true form you were born in,
through, and from./ When I was nine I built my own drum./ And outer manifestation of my
heart and its ability to beat./ Guiding my feet along the track that they tread./ I will follow the
eternal thread of life that we are all strung from./ And from this pen that pours forth ink, I
lay these words upon some paper/ so that my mind can cease to think.