It begins—
not with a shape, nor a line,
but a spark, a whisper, caught in design,
something unseen, not yet thought,
a seed before rising to light.

Fingers trace the unseen design,
pressing the silence, pulling the thread,
molding what stirs, what longs to be said.

The wheel turns, the rhythm wakes,
clay that trembles, bends, and breaks—
too much force, it shatters fast,
too little, and it cannot last.
Again, again, the hands return,
not to command, but to discern.

Then—

the self dissolves.
No hand, no clay,
only motion, only sway,
a pull, a pulse,
something rising from the space
between knowing and embrace.

No thought remains,
only touch, only trance,
only creation’s quiet dance,
shaping itself through the one who bends,
to where the art itself intends.

And when the wheel slows to its rest,
when breath is deep and hands are pressed,
who shapes, who surrenders—
the hands, or what they manifest?

Do you prefer space, or the deep ocean?
Or the void at end of the world
where the ocean was before
it turned to salt? Or all of the above?

Me, I prefer the all-out sprint to the edge
where the toes abandon the sun-warmed planks,
the infinity of just existing in air, a moment
before the infinity of just existing in cold water.

There is boundless freedom only found
constrained to a minute's unreversed decision.
There is endless wisdom only gained when lost
to the great unknown, unwritten verities.

There is uncanny comfort in this pastel wind
over gray land, in the unconcerned moon,
in the one thing you don't even think about until
you need to find where you dropped your keys.

In reality, "all of the above" is the correct response,
and you can with joy fling yourself into the abyss
of any unfathomed mystery, any new creation
to discover whether you will float, or sink, or swim.

Or we could just spend the day together
at an art museum, leave your jacket and keys there
on the benighted beach, hold hands, and jump
through the wormhole at the center of the galaxy.

Art is a lesson for both its creator and those who admire it.
With every soft brushstroke, carefully selected synonym,
or drawn out note, the artist learns a new way to create,
a new way to evoke emotion from others by ripping it
straight out of their own chest. An artist can do this with
a graceful combination of ease and effort. Those who see
the canvas, read the pages, or listen to the melody, are only
able to grasp the pieces of the pain that are reflected within
their own souls. Inside, we are all fragments of the same
shattered mirror. Its glass once reflected only the face of God,
but now it reflects parts of us. Does it still show God’s visage?

Are we God’s art? Were we a lesson for the all-knowing? Does
even our creator learn from our mistakes, flaws, imperfections?

Let your true colors shine brightly
as you wear them with pride.
Spread your colors across yourself,
your surroundings, your life!
Let your personality be itself,
regardless of the words of others
or the criticism of those who don’t
love you! You should love you!
In every messy stage, in every
dull moment, and in every bold move,
love yourself! For you are a painting,
my love! As both art and artist,
become your own creation. We are here
to admire the beautiful masterpiece
that the artist intended along with every
glorious mistake and mishap
that made its way into the final piece!
You are a painting, my love.
Create yourself.

A candle sputters, releasing the scent
of cinnamon and apples. Inspiration ignites
within the poet’s mind, like a lit flare.

Passion cooks within her, simmering ideas
like stir fry. Joy sparks from her fingertips
as she types. Her digits blaze across
the keyboard in fiery bursts. Her words
flow out of her like wildfire, consuming
the empty page. A pyre of text appears
on the screen. She fiercely feeds the flame.

Poetry and prose emerge like a phoenix
from the ashes. The warm glow of contentment
surrounds her as she admires her work.

The fires of creation are burning through her.

The day they lower me into the dirt,
I want to be remembered by my work.
One day when I am six feet under,
I want my treasures torn asunder.
I won’t need riches, wealth, or money.
After all, it’s kinda funny.
They won’t follow me to hell.
I want to be remembered well.
May my art lead others to glee.
May my work make others free.
After all, what’s the point, if it all ends with me?
Art and creation are for confronting mortality.

Surrounded by beads and notions,
she creates with no hesitation.
She is struck, like lighting,
by the fires of creation.

When He was born,
He cried into the void of space,
Searching for the comforting voice of calm.

But only silence returns His call,
His tears echoing of the dark edges of the dark.

But He taught Himself to walk,
How to shape something with His own hands,
Then He made a world to answer back.

Unmask your own façade – that veil of one’s significance over
meanings to a meaningless question. We are just consumers in
this monotony of existence, a mere statistic for our emotions
being manufactured for the world’s grand theatre of parading,
one’s weakness.

And are we not taught how to measure worth by the measure
of things you acquire? We surrender to this illusion of perfect
love peddled on glowing screens; waiting on the glow of feelings,
to expect out hearts to glow by fire.

And I find control in this world an illusion; the tighter you hold
onto what you believe is yours, the more it slips through your
fingers – lest it be your own self-control; to tame your flesh that
leaks sin out of its pores. As time is an investment, but a currency
that only death can claim fully, when all our hours dwindle. Love
and hate are two sides of the same coin; as our capacity to love
fiercely, is matched only by our readiness to quickly hate when
the masses rally – though love is the stronger force to leave one
eager, or so fickle.

Life is simply everything and yet, paradoxically, nothing – as
nothing endures eternally, resting in the world. Life is sculpted
by the hand of a Creator, who calls his creations home as their
bones grows cold, and skins old.

Tis a poem on life.