I don’t want to write poetry
I want to bottle the essence of
The vast inner-workings of the universe
And give it to you for free
I don’t charge money for my philosophy
I couldn’t be pushed to look at you
Unless it was deep in your eyes
And swallowing the words you speak
Digesting their meanings and subtle
Ironies
The inconsistencies of your desires and your actions
Are like diamond dust on my tongue
Tears upon realizing your forgotten pain
Fermenting and sloshing around in that
Hidden belly of depth
The intense turmoil, the rapturous escape
Blend them on slow so that I may see
Your blues and reds trace fingerprints of
Purple across the glass
Oh and the times where you forgot
Something important,
And your heart skips a beat and your hair stands
A little
Your face flushes, oh the pinks
And once you find it,
In my arms
I was waiting the whole time
Impatiently at moments
But all the while,
I just longed to drink up your sighs of relief
Your giddy smiles piling joy after joy within me
And those moments where you are about to fall asleep
And you **** awake suddenly,
Your eyes, still distant and dreamy
And the slow release as you lay back down
On my chest
And I don’t care that my arm went numb 15 minutes ago
As long as I don’t disturb you
The things I do for love
Or more like..
The things I do because I love

But I’m still here
No doubt, lonely and without
Any proper ventilation
For my soul is gaseous and restless
My thoughts are emaciated and
And my feelings are callused and unbending
I sometimes, don’t feel anything any more
And that is what I fear,
That I may shrivel, haven’t created even a fraction
Of this dream
This highly unrealistic yet truthful dream in which
Some form of power, even in fibers and threads
Pulls my chin up to gaze in wonder

Today, I must write a poem:

What this poem has to say
has yet to come to mind.
Has yet to ignite like a spark
on a cord
making its way
to an explosive source of ideas.

Such an amenity
so unlikely to be found
happening here.

I must again mine for thoughts.
So, along with my pickaxe,
I trek with good memories
to return me safely back
from the deepest recesses of my mind.

I hunt.

For idea. For inspiration,
For I cannot return
empty handed.

I dig. And I dig. And I dig.

It feels like forever,
as if there's nothing left,
as if the mountain of my mind
was tapped dry long ago.

I check every crevice,
every corner, and nook,
now ridden with old
and reused ideas.

And then I find it:

The first flower of spring;
the cloud in clear sky;
the single rock of inspiration;
possibly the last chunk of idea
for years to come
simply sitting there,
lighting up
the dark caverns of my mind,
waiting to take shape.

As I begin to mold
As I begin to sculpt
"It" is no longer an it.
Ideally, it's an idea
that has succumbed to the darkest,
most vile parts of my mind.
Yet, despite,
has been brought out the depths of
being just an idea, withering away;
it has been realized.
It has been successfully plucked
at its time of harvest.

It has become so much more;
this once coal of an idea
has been polished,
and glimmers just as bright
as its diamond-like companions.

So, I return
with yet another triumph,
from braving the dark and cold
labyrinth of my mind
yielding my trophy;
my idea.