This Process

This poetic process.
Taken often by readers personally or not.
Is no different than it has been,
For writers of poetry or fictioned realities...
To introduce other visions as creatively,
Done to broaden...
The minds of those knowing,
They have not been personally attacked.

Although experiences to have them,
Can be similar to witness and observe.
From distant shores or close enough,
To describe with words
And for many this can be too much to reveal.
Especially for the ones,
Quick to defend as if to protect themselves.
Of feelings to believe,
A writer of poetry, novels or science fiction...
Is knowing something more,
About everyone behind their closed doors.

To immediately want to wish,
A censoring of their point of view.
Including what they have done to do,
For purposes to fear what has been written.
May cause permanent damage to the minds,
Of today's children.

Children.
Long to have been exposed to the internet.
Children.
Seeing to reveal much more,
Than poetry, books, or magazines.
Could possibly expose,
What today kids already know.
And...
Stripped from an innocence.
With details learned to teach them taught.
Alone.

Downloaded in their homes.
While their parents, ministers...
And others to have sacramonious,
Religious beliefs...
Attempt to prevent what these children,
Carry packed in their backpacks secretly.
Going from their homes to elementary school.
Disrespecting,
Lessons taught by their teachers.
And rules to obey in their heads to keep.

Leaving the pretentiousness,
Of those self righteous.
Doing everything possible,
To censor what they assume to believe...
Has a direct affect,
On the 'innocent minds of their children.
And yet,
The proof of that...
Claimed to rumor and blame on 'the system'.
Has not kept devoted teachers.
In schools to do the best they can,
Patiently tolerating...
The belligerent activities,
Of today's incapable to listen children.
Or parents unwilling,
To grow up and 'pretend' themselves adults!

'Again...
This re-occurring issue is your opinion!'

That maybe true.
I am not perfect.
I am a poet. A writer.
Not a psychologist.
Nor an observer.
Witnessing without a word to say.
Although I do admit,
Listening to hear...
From many living in denial.
On a daily basis.
As if my mind has been blinded by delusion.
And tormented by thoughts kept fictioned.

Hey...
What can I say?
I am a writer of poetry.
Not a novelist to be censored.
Or a protestor upset,
By choices others make for themselves.
You have taken that position!
Your decisions made to make,
Are yours.
Not mine in my my mind to defend.

'But don't you feel somewhat responsible,
For the choice of words you select and pick?'

Of course, I do.
Every now and then I misspell a word.
Taking what I have written,
Down a path I had not considered.
And to later discover what I meant to say,
Had taken on a totally different meaning.
Taking my initial intention,
Somewhere else I did not mean at all.

But then I must admit,
Those misunderstandings...
Helped tremendously to provide to me,
A freshened outlook.
With incentive and motivation.
I had not thought about.
And graciously I would thank the ones,
Assisting my thoughts to take them...
In directions they would more than likely,
Accept and believe them to be...
Personal.

I will never be one of those writers of poetry,
To ignore the beliefs of my readers.
No.
I want the readers of my creativity,
To know, at least, I can and will stay...
Considerate of their beliefs.
And open to their opinions as well!

My mama didn't raise me to be a fool.
Not by choice to remain that way.