"What the Fuck is a Freewrite?"

I’m listening to “The Prayer” by Kid Cudi.

And I’m wondering.

If I could really freewrite something.

Recently,

I’ve curved cravings for the high by being in this cave.

Allegory

of a love story. Platonic plays reflecting self are mirrored in these stone walls

soiled

with my thoughts.

Dreams and Nightmares role play in my bed sometimes. Trading Places.

And I’m wondering. Compared to the passion

of the couple beside me, is my wordplay empty?

Most days, our sex is just

movement.

For the sake

of movement, moves play dominant, suppressing thoughts into submission.

Literally, I have no idea what these ideas mean. They just are what they are.

Independent.

And in them, I am dependant. My name under their income taxes. I am an orphan and I loose track of where my foster care lies sometimes. In bed maybe.

Within the walls soiled with thoughts, a roof of confusion, I write without direction.

I watch

fingers

strike

keys

with discretion

and I can’t figure it out till it’s over.

LCD screen

Journal entries record dreams and nightmares

swapping wives

with death and taxes.

Competing.

Raw.

Transparent pages declare

waR

when I change them and I can’t tell which couple is worse. And even as individuals, I don’t know them until we’re over:

Dreams. Nightmares. Death. Taxes.

So I must be content with content across this very screen metaphysically telling me I never will.

I stop typing… The cursor blinks. And I wish my eyes didn’t close so often. I miss things so often. See them when they’re open. And I miss them when they close again.

I find myself rudely staring at my seed. (I)t looks at me up from this cradle of pages. And I find myself again.

But I still don’t understand.

What the fuck is a freewrite?