A poem; my soul; a piece of my all,
What I give to you upon these pages
Is about the only thing that feels right;
This life has made me nocturnal, you see
Writing, well, it always feels like almost-
Can you feel my heartbeat without your hands?
I call myself a word artist; these hands
Do more than write them; I color them all.
I’m neither poet nor writer, almost
Pretentious in sound, unfit for pages
That my fingers compose. I simply see
Expansion within these words that I write.
Inhale…exhale…this is how we breathe, right?
Let infinity raise your trembling hands,
Place a pen between your fingers and see
inarticulate soul splutterings, all
yours, enough to fill millions of pages,
millions and millions and millions . . . almost.
Resuscitating language feels almost
Like beyond my capacity to write.
How do I breathe life into these pages?
For these words are just made by my hands;
I wish I could show my soul to you all
and then maybe, maybe you could see:
I want to be a lighthouse on the sea,
But I’m living as a flashlight, almost
Always. I sigh. These words, this life, this all
Feels like two knocking fists, perfectly right.
Words are mere ideas within these hands,
Holding tensions and yet birthing pages.
But I found comfort on other pages
When I read G-d’s paradox, for you see
He is transcendent and immanent. Hands
Push and pull this concept in an almost
Disbelief. It’s ok: both can be right.
We are many contradictions, we all.
The language on these pages is borrowed, almost
Exhausted, but my experience is infinite, for you see I write
As my hands hold possibility, as my heart beats ink, and as we are never finished, not at all.