By: Rebel Jones

A pleasure never known before
A systematic rhythm of energy inside
A chaotic sound of almost invisible static in the air.
A vibration in my bones,
A surging electricity that seems
to go against the current of my blood,

 

It sends shivers through out
as my eyes are forced open
and my fingers made to type.

I'm certainly not conscious here,
some sort of meditative state
where my fingers feel as if they
were controlled by
invisible pulleys and weights,
Oh puppet strings...

Tapping with vicious [CK1] force
attacking each lettered key with such intense intention
and my mind is taken over
by the voices of
those
whom lived back in ancient
ancestral days
with histories long forgotten
or just sadly ignored
and stuffed away
as humanity somewhere down the line
lost its natural goodness
and humane ways.

I'm the scribe to type or write
the history of the lost,
the stories unimportant to those involved
in hiding scandalous history cover ups,
of those that slaved for elite socialites
mixed breeding with those they publicly persecuted 

and swore they disliked.

Or the drunken sailor telling tales of sea beasts

and mythic Gods
that strike down the Earth and seas
with mighty lightning rods.

My mind is attached to energies of history, 

and I've learned some ways to tap into that 

and interpret the stories told to me through this pen this cell, 

this typewriter at this haunted desk I'm sitting at.

 

And this chair that's felt the flow of
many who sat to splash
profound poetic ink
Or different views
the rest of the world
is scared to think
or speak.

©rebelpjones