the incognito rides within every work
and loves secrets
the secret of working, the secret of creating
spirit woven into words.

A man was sitting in a barren landscape
Only cracks in the orange clay
And scorpions for company
And it was very dry

One day the man was sitting in meditation,
And felt himself to be hot,
So he breathed
And when he released this breath,
Trees sprang from the ground
And a pool opened at his feet
He opened his eyes, and he said
"This is not enough"

The next day, the man sat in meditation once more
And he held out his hand and said
"By my divine energy I will there to be a palace for me!"
And from his hand leapt 10,000 bricks
That formed themselves into a castle
Greater than the Taj Mahal
And he sat upon his new throne
And was happy

One day, again, he sat in meditation in his palace
And he thought "I need servants to tend to my whims!"
And he regurgitated 4 servant girls
who would see to his needs as he saw them

Many months later, after much lavish living and unhealthy eating,
He found himself with all of his riches,
all of his silks, and his exotic animal skins and servants,
Still unsatisfied, he went to meditate in his great hall,
He asked himself "Why can't I be truly satisfied? Give me a vision.
Give me a sign that I've made the right decisions"

The man found himself in the place he was truly happy
But he was confused, as he had been here before
He was seeing himself sitting on the orange clay,
At play with a scorpion,
Searching for his water for the day

"But I've had my fill" he tells himself
"I drink so much water a day I could drown a fish.
I wear such nice silks I counted down to the ten thousandth stitch
How can I be unhappy if I'm so lavishly rich?"

And that's when he realized,
that happiness isn't measured in the gold of a ring,
Or being acknowledged as some sort of king,
Happiness is having just the right amount of water from the spring,
Not the precious metals and fabric to which we cling,
And as his palace of fools gold crumbled down,
He sprang and danced and looked all around
And felt so happy he started to sing

I could probably write a bunch of stanza's
With black letters and white background of metaphors and similies
I could use pretty words and figures of speech
And end with something ironic.
Or use lines that we've all heard before and try to pass it off as my own,
or write something that's all too vague.
But the truth is
All I'd really be writing about
Is the same old concept that's been written about in poetry for years
And the same feeling that's felt all across the world on a Saturday night when we are alone:
A little bored
Maybe even a little lonely
And a little desperate for a miracle.

Something about literature universally connecting people
something about verses that we can identify with
something about using words in the a way that makes people feel less alone
I see people using poems as band-aids
and poets writing poetry like their last saving grace
I don't know.
Some things hurt.
Some things burn
and bruise
and fester inside of you and run in circles around your mind
until it hurts to think about it any more
it hurts to read about it any more
it hurts to write abou-
my head hurts.
It hurts to write about this any more.