I think therefore I am
          writing
therefore to me I am
          writing.
I think?

the most beautiful thing about poetry is
how the beauty of the words evolve
with you
the more you experience
the more you learn
the more you write

you recognize phases in life
that you didn't know existed
you read old poems but
still feel the same passion
as when you first put your emotions onto paper

you witness greatness becoming perfected
but never reached because
as a beautiful entity
you are forever growing, forever evolving

or maybe the most beautiful thing about poetry
is how you can translate intangible emotions
into relatable words without even fully knowing
what the final piece will be
sometimes you have a vision of the words
and other times the fingers move for you before your
mind can process what is going on
the more you write
the more you see
the more you understand

poetry dares you
to grapple with your emotions instead of hide them

poetry is transformative.

Born into a world colder then glacial tidal waves, yet naked in the sun of tomorrows we forever wait.

Wondering where the light began, how the showing of brightness produced the fractal pattern complexity unending.

Blink, but do not give away illumination for the lone black vacuum tumultuous constant of anti-nothing that cradles all things with mass.

Holdfast to logical constructs that articulate a suitable fashion, not those worn until their withered threads broke the binding of founding to an untested journey of life.

Of, intentional sacrifice of habitual mainstays that dust has long removed the visible passion to once it had belonged.

A burning inside for something tangible that out runs a heart alluding capture at every grasp.

How does one contain a pyroclastic flow of emotions that pour from a soul breaking oceans down to their knees, vomiting dirt and dust, while begging the stubborn clouds for water?

"We owe no compensation for the loss of liquid you horde, for the cost required to return you cannot afford".

Much too is the passion of a human heart, hasty to burn in a quickened rush, ending in an overly lamented rust.

But not all fires simply burn out, some roar, some kick, and many shout, and it is not the fear that they will die.

It is the belief that something ancient pulls through the lone black nothing to those born of even stranger tides igniting a raging inferno.

Showing candles burned at both ends can begin old emotions in young hearts that have never known a solid direction for passions unbound by limitations of vacuum insanity.

The part of me,
that played in the rain,
Slowly died with you.

I am now
attached at the thumbs
connected through the fingertips
it thinks for me
navigates for me
reads the minds of others to my face
it is a lens
through which I have access to an invisible world that no one can see
unless they have a prosthetic limb like me

I am a prophet,
An author of my life.
I control all I need to,
And let go of what I don't.

You might have been steady
Loving
And kind
But your love didn’t surprise me
Or blow my mind