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.
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