A Compilation of April

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.


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LANDFILLS is a grassroots literary, arts and culture online collective based in Chicago. All work is original, except the featured images that accompany text posts (which are blatantly stolen from tumblr.com). Complaints should be directed to Po via Twitter.
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