What really makes the fingers grip the pen and write, or tap out a pattern of keys resulting in words that somehow usually make sense, even though we gaze at the paper and scratch our heads often with ”where did that come from?”
We Sometimes Weep by Odin Roark Who wrote this poem, This conjunction of thoughts From memories, Mine? Experiences solely, Mine? Number, line and dot, Understandings, Mine? Asking. Always we ask From where Drifts, Darts, Stabs, Slides, These words. Assume we must. Alchemy of mind? Maybe. Channeling? perhaps. Inspiration? Mmm. Answers. A guess. Assumption. Calculation. Odds. Chance? Even when willing to Ask, Assume, Answer, There seems to be no stopping Our floating about. Pages, our magic carpet. Transporting us to Cave-walls, yet to be discovered, Time's ancient etchings, Continuance awaiting arousal. From where this endurance originates? We know not. We ponder. We sometimes weep.
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