Emergence see

I am an arrow straight
a dangerous shipping lane
From the molten core
To distant star

And I yearn to create
Here alone distilling
My chilling
Thoughts

Floating my word out
And thinking that I am doing my work.
Maybe for a time I was
Or was that just my practicing
Getting used to the flow
Forming, reforming
Delete delete delete
That’s not quite right.  Write.  Wright.

It is time for the maker to rise
Playing with the raw material,
Pushing words around like clay
Moulding them to my use, whim
Working them, fit them in.

This is only the beginning
Of what I can do.  A taste
Call you tell what’s to come?
Can you feel it, in the air
Almost palpable, like an impending
Storm
All this so far has been
Just the first few flurries of words
the potential hangs there
Waiting with patient expectation
Slowly gestation, becoming big
Round glorious. (there is something unwritten here)
Ah but you see I’m still learning
God this is so much fun!
I hate it when actors say 
How much funtheirjobis
You’re getting paid enough
It should be absolute agony.
Hell, my job sure does suck
And you’ve got two decimal places on me
And your opinion doesn’t concern me
Because you’re not all that
Yu need to have someone tell you what to say.
It’s not you, actor-man, but your character
That intrigues me.  If I can still see you through your part, 
You failed.
There’s more to this metaphor
So what then, not the person but their work
Is that not so with artists?  
Should the work stand alone?
We even question if there was a Shakespeare
And yet his words remain
Is that for me?  Faceless immortal fame?
Or some richer road, full of love
And well researched biography
Either way, I ought to get to it
I can feel it now, gestating
Waiting.  With lessening patience
There’s not much left, like dress rehearsal
The only thing left for the director to do
Is let go

Yea this thing that’s coming, must come
Emerge, emergence, emergency
Yes, there is a sort of
Urgency to the emerging
Critical, crucial

Ah that part of me that wants to pull back
Has gotten small, weak.  The way all of me
Was, on the playground
No longer do I recoil, reactively, almost unaware
Now I know I am near the edge
The top of the ski jump, the cliff dive
For the first time.   Weak, yes
But still I am here.

I do not want to wait to be pushed
I trust that this will go down exactly as it must
And I have my wormhook ready
I will rise and ride it

For now I have beaten it with words
Instead of creating, I have avoided it
By moving towards it.  Ha!
Look at me!

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