Spilled Ink Poem by Matthew Holloway

Here you claim this
Poem, verse, whatever
It writes itself
Like a voice, a bird chirping away
Its just a flow of being
Conscious or not
It's a reality
A truth of sorts
Perhaps influenced
By substances or drink
By music, books, art
Art a beauty of life
A joy of creativity
That which stops
All, everything
Tracks no hunter could follow
The madness of it
The unknown
The magic of it
Free flowing creation
Enjoy, love, laughter
And celebrate
What makes itself
The soul influenced