As intimidating as a blank page,
So much nothing its overwhelming
A mesh of every color created into
The lull of empty space.
So much change it’s the same
Melting into the realization.
Nothing is everything.
Just a mess of choices, mistakes.
A dialog of faces, of familiar places
Time is all there is, it doesn't exist.
It doesn't mean anything.
But the illusions addicting
And I’m high off of you.
In this life, images of your body
Split words of color from your mind.
Spending quality time on the beach in your eyes.
The vibration of your resounding energy
Slightly tickling every square inch of me
Feeling electricity while
your tenderly kissing
my essence and reassuring me
of my presence and my own existence.
Fitting closely against the love
You so boldly drove into me
Filling voids while bringing me
To the brink of happiness, joy, and ecstasy.
Convincing me that lapses in time
And relapse in my addiction to
The thought of the human paradox.
Of existing in constant contradiction
Are not completely lost and somehow create direction.
And I don’t feel lost in our created heaven
And I must exist and you’re my only real-
My only worthy recollection.

poetry, moving, motion,
kinetic, effigy, ocean,
swimming, swimming, sinking,

There was once a time
before words were among us,
before, there was just movement
of images of rolling hills
and towering skyscrapers,
colliding and fusing together
into a spiral staircase.

Before there was language,
we had movement.

before language,
We would just stare at each other
for a dozen minutes at time
as if our features were a French painting
done by an existentialistic artist, trying
so hard to create the beauty he cannot find for himself.

And how I would stare into the ocean of your eyes
grasping your fingers as our very presence
gave each other lysergic bliss.

Before language.

Poetry is in essence
right words in the right order
but
it shouldn't  stop there

there's more
infinitely more

distillation
of the heart's deepest joys
and sorrows

constellation
of all that springs from
and happens to the self
in all its myriad manifestations
and facets--
mysterious - multifold

for life is an endless roll
of the self
in motion
and action-

self-searching
self-evaluation
self-conversation
self-evolution
self-determination
(existentiali­stic recognition
that life would inexorably end
in extinction
more despair and ennui
than hope?
that's the question
to be addressed individually--
  each life is sacred and its own
and asserts its will to be
before it sinks into oblivion)

poetry is also
the articulation
of the beyond-self
the juxtaposition
alongside others
the intricate and delicate interplay
of relationships
the joys and angsts
that follow

while time watches on
and carries a whip
'hurry, hurry--I wait for none-
presto!'

and
destiny stares one
in the face
testing one's mettle
and endurance
at any time
in any place

the poet writes:
I am saved by words
by words alone
they are my salvation
my one and only vessel
which gives my life
a ring-tone
however faint
and makes me aware
I am still living

'de nihil, nihil fit'
from nothing
comes nothing
either I am something
or nothing-
with myself I've to wrestle
to deny that
I am nothing

even if a pale shadow
I'm still something
I'd not forego
my right to being
someone in the making
for life is living
and experimenting
over time
a process of becoming

and at the end of things
I'd know with every single feeling
I've not failed myself in the task of living
through the words of my poetry
that have given me every meaning