Seeing Poetry

Poetry can't be written with a silly smile and a hearty laugh.

Poetry needs to be felt, to be witnessed, and to be suffered.

You need to feel the sting of its touch and the burn of its words,

These words need to be embedded in your pale skin.

It needs to be carved out of your soul, slowly, decisively.

Every stanza needs to be pained and real,

It is a life you are putting unto paper,

Life is made of suffering, hard work and oblivion.

Feel it prick, feel it burrow, feel it torture you,

Poetry reaches inside you and blinds all other sense

Let it take you where all the masters have been,

Somewhere, barren, wasted and yet,

Holding a sour beauty to its fragile substance.

A desert, lifeless, soulless, starless land,

Salt spread among the ruins of great master's works.

You can see the atoms holding this world together.

Only, by sheer strength of will, you are able to see it,

Allow it to penetrate, dissociate, desecrate.

In this world you can see all limbs flying lifeless,

No angel can rescue you from this hell.

This so pleasurable hell and coldness.

Embrace it, dissect it, and ravish it,

Take your seat besides gods and wonder.

Watch, the sun melt in the horizon.

Watch your soul levitate, imitate.

Let this world open its iron locked gate

Think, feel, act, drink of their nectar.

Submerge yourself into the truth it doth' offers you

Then only by switching, twisting, lying about truth,

Will you recognize the real mimesis; and finally

You'll be able to say, I am a poet,

I am the conveyed prize I have so long waited to become.

I am the man who has dematerialized a world.

Taken every limb, angel, atom and feeling,

Transformed it into a masterpiece to be remembered.

Shaped it to my liking, to my mind, to my shape, projected forward.

Materializing it into the real word, the promised text,

Revealed at last to me, to my interior being.

I, like so many masters before me have seen it,

Yes, I glimpsed through the keyhole.

I saw flames, I saw waves, and I saw darkness

I saw light, I saw all the feelings, I saw muses

I saw the before, and the after; Time,

I saw the universe; I saw eternity and infinity,

I saw them fuse and create a new entity.

Among all these perfect imperfection I saw one last thing,

I saw myself looking through a keyhole seeing everything.

What I was seeing was different, changed.

Through the keyhole I observed things I had never seen,

Before closing my eyes I realized still I was blind and much was to be seen.

So, the cycle restarts again and again.

Over and Over and Over.

Poetry can't be written with a silly smile and a hearty laugh.

Poetry needs to be felt, to be witnessed, and to be suffered.