If Only

Having toned and centered all will to this: MY DEBUT!. Peeling off the filth, grime and thinly veiled sins of writing: I reach. Exposing a new viral skin, a candied armor: poteat and swirled. Old ways, crumple to the earth like wet dust, pooling dry. And I: emerge as a cataclysmic beam of energy, plugged in, magnetized, inhaleing the vigor, through my mind, until a quazar of light implodes, sending bursts of thought, into the Cartesian coordinates, hanging tidspits, of poetic data here and there. My body quivers, unseen, yet deep to bone. I envision space, with dark pulsating ideologies. Knarling them like twine, I collect the alphabeted fog. To form an adjective, so connected to the attempt, I must open my mind and reach inside with care. To touch that, which is forbidden, and bring out into this world, where it does not belong, so it will grace a page. And then I sigh, Does my heart control effort? I turn and leave, exhausted from, continuing to look at the blank.