I could have sworn

I pulled every bit

out by the roots

Yet I find

thoughts of you

pushing up through

the soil of my mind

Three painted lines on a canvas is art in a prestigious gallery, though not a Michelangelo, or a Van Gogh! Three lines of verse is poetry in an anthology, though not an Eliot or an Angelou!

Not every painting in a gallery speaks to me, but each one speaks to somebody. Reaching and touching someone is the essence of poetry.

What is a painting, but poetry for the eyes? And is poetry not a painting for the ears? Artists and poets give form to feelings and emotions that stir within. Mozart couldn’t contain the music bottled up in him. It gushed out of his head like torrents in the spring.

Artists and poets give wings to what's trapped within. Given form, love, pain and joy will soar to enchant, arouse and touch humanity. Released creatively, feelings and emotions become poetry!

As this day begins, I’m fond of the ardor of desire.

I like blondes and brunettes, and I smell like fire.

Who are you anyway? I ask myself,

as the tasks pile up upon my shelf.

I wonder such things and feel the new day

rising up to recur in the same old way.

I wander through dreams and realities removed

and take off my jeans and my dirty, old shoes.

So what do you have to do—each of you, dear readers,

as you live out your lives with all the detours and seizures?

You don’t know what you’ll face when you look at the feeds

of the news and the cycles as they continue to bleed.

But you know something else, I have to continue to say,

as our lives wend on in a similar way?

There’s a fuckload of joy attending each breath

that we take as we dance between our births and our deaths.

And it all balances out when our last gasp is taken

and our hearts are weighed there at Anubis’ station.

So be grateful as long as you possibly can

as you exist as you are in this incredible land.

I want to experience it with my own senses, my own

Readily astonished mind.

The ending of the Universes,

The beginning of them;

The creation of stars, the pull of Nothingness,

Resourceful civilizations, reckless wars.

To witness Life in a place so far from reach,

So differently entangled in the same laws of our Universe

That their appearance, their necessities,

Their breath, their brilliant thought, their environments

Are unlike any we picture from this sheltered, lonely world.

A true vision of Afterlife, Afterdeath, the Void;

The Creator, the Destroyer, or neither. Nothing.

The births of souls, of spirits, of Life,

And the mirror they look within

To See themselves.

Particles within particles

Within particles within particles.

Systems within systems,

Cycles, sciences.

What do we have wrong about our Existence?

What do we not know?

Everything, all at once, that ever has, is, and ever will

And Nothing, none at all, that ever hasn't, isn't, nor ever will.

I’m often reminded of you.

When I feel joy overwhelm me.

Joy I thought you were faking.

When joy reveals itself plainly.

When joy reveals itself through song.

When synths feel cinematic and manic

and make me want to morph my body into a star.

When I hear lamentations about our eventual fate

that still allow space for awe amid lingering angst

When I want to feel everything, everywhere, all at once

When I want to feel everyone I love.

When I am wondering where I learned how to care.

What do you do when things go right,

But the right people to celebrate with,

Are no longer in your life?

You’re carried in my heart,

Honored in my work.

But the fact that you would be the happiest,

Still highlights.

How sometimes life loses a spark.

A light we can no longer see,

But have to remember is part of the sky.

i'm worried i'm trying too hard, that people don't take me at face value. writing has always been easy for me. it's simple to put little bits of myself into art. it's not always this painful passion, it's just this thing that's always there. after a long day i just write about it. when i can't talk i write, when i feel too much i write, and it's not very romantic.

i'm attempting honesty through art because god knows i can't speak it and it scares me that people might think i'm trying to be someone. i don't know who i am and it doesn't hurt all that much. i'm just writing about it all. not pushing anything, not faking anything, just writing. sending little love letters into the universe and waiting for someone to write back.