Do not laugh at my depression,
my suicidal thoughts
    past or present.
Nor my time spent in hospitals
    or otherwise spent alone.
I am who I am,
not ruled by my past.

I am whole

Where are your trenches?
Your broken places?
Where do you look
in times of sorrow?
From where do you draw
your words?
And how do you plan to
use them?

Find me where I am and not in your mind
for surely I can't be found there.
I know your mind as maybe I used
    to frequent your thoughts
        sometime.
Know you're always on my mind
and that from time to time
I think I love you right.

Ginsberg, Kerouac, Whitman
understood the importance of poetry,
words from a good universe that make the world
admit a secret: that the best way to live
is to grab hold of life
and not let go,
to love
and not be ashamed,
to write from the universal soul
     for what hides in the universe is verse.

Everyone thinks
    that not everything
can be fantastic
     but the secret is
that Everything is

     Kerouac wrote,
'no time for poetry
but exactly what is”
     the truth is that everything is poetry:
tying your shoes to go to school
a cool breeze on a too sunny day
a lover's warm thigh
the stars,
that remind me that we all have
something in common

     Is the earth not poetry?
The wind on your cheek
     not the meaning of existence?
The music you hear
     not the voice of god?
This love, at the very least,
     not a reason to wake up tomorrow?

This poem
       so small
hurriedly scribbled
   in a pocket notebook
can it mean anything
        in this infinite universe?

Loneliness bellows.
Sadness screams
      to be heard
and how could one not hear it
as it yells from the balcony
beckoning for
         love
that will never come.
How harsh it's voice
that scrapes the mind
and kills the hopes
found inside.

If I die tomorrow
at least I have this moment:
    cold water
as if from a mountain stream
(really from a soda fountain) and
yellow light illuminating Ginsberg
who sits beside me
and says "live".