Poetry is the language of the dying man.

(Originally posted to Myspace: December 10th, 2007)

We use words to fill the void

between our understanding
therefore when all is understood
there are no words

There is a rythym to life, a beat
we all must learn to ride it
to dance
and move our feet
too many of us stand still
and then wonder
why we feel so empty

Philosophers are sad men with too many words
screaming to prove their points
you cannot build a cage around the truth
you can only admire it when it happens
and you have little say in the matter

I wanted to fill a million pages with words
until my heart was empty
it took me only a short time
to find out I had nothing to give
my heart still beats
full of blood and life
there will be time to write when I'm dead

We fill the gaps in conversation
with anything we can find
like a drowning sailor grasping for life
death stands over the whole endeavor
I have tried to pull her into the
sea with me, but she refuses
to evacuate the decadent quarters
of her sinking ship
she is in love with the captain
and refuses to leave him
I give her one last parting kiss
then gently sink into the ocean's bliss

The time between poems
that's where creation begins
the time between breaths
is the moment between
life and death
the moment of truth
spiritus is latin for breath
inspiration
inhalation
I am the spirit
which brings truth
imparted to the land
of the dead

I have never been who I want to be
never enough, I have always
needed more of something to be
worthy of someone's love
they say everything is full of love
but I know that isn't true
the only love that exists
is the love you carry with you

I have worn many hats in my life
most of them black-rimmed
funeral garb
now I wear the poet's hat
but I still know that
death is the only constant
how many poems will
die upon the page
before they see
the light of day

She smiled while she lied to my face
I knew she was lying, she knew she was lying
yet she kept up the facade
I guess that's what hurts the worst
Then again
I've done the same thing
to the person I loved the most
God damn it
I am a
Bastard

She often spoke of freedom
inside the bars of her own cage
she spoke of the day she would
escape and find herself
laughing in fields of green
I was so in love with this idea
that one night I snuck in and opened
the door of her cell
but she just
stood there
staring out the window
she still speaks often
but I have learned to stop listening

In a number of years this mind and body
will be gone
but these words may still remain
pen and ink stained upon a page
crumple them up and throw them away
follow me where I have gone
for these words mean nothing

She came into my life like a refugee
I tried to give her political asylum
but she always had to be one step ahead of her past
I could not follow the whims of her heart
Or perhaps it was my own whims I could not understand
I still see her sometimes
in the small objects she left behind
they exist on the edge of perception
too painful to think about
yet too sacred to throw away

She is dead to me now
an idea of her exists
and somewhere it makes men smile
but it has been too long since she has
graced my lips
my memories of her are
sandcastles that have melted
into the sea
bittersweet childhood relics of lost innocence

I lost all rhyme and reason
once I started letting the
words speak for themselves
like an Escher painting
I had become the hand
drawing itself
it is a simple process of elimination
remove yourself and what is left
will reflect eternity

People talk about the search for meaning
but do not realize, that which is sought
must be lost in the first place
grasp it, it is here before us
as we speak
but we are too busy talking
to see it

How many people actually know me?
I live with myself 24 hours a day
and I am still finding out new things
about myself
How can we ever know another
when we are constantly changing?
Why do we so easily fall in love
with the idea of another person?

Life lies before me, strange and ineffable
infinite in its scope, there is more
to the world than I can possibly imagine
yet my life collects around me like dust
in an old room
waiting for the winds of change
to blow it in a new direction

I was listening to rap music when
the prudish woman at work
told me that I was like a beat poet
I doubt that she's even read Ginsberg or Kerouac
it's okay though, because neither have I
Sometimes it's fun to pretend

Life is the ultimate act of creation
every moment of every day
every thought you make
every word you say
every action you take
creates
we are the artists of our own lives