THE RAPTURE IN BREATHING
Before I proceed,
don’t think dirty,
and warn your cells to behave
because what I will write
is not about your pleasures,
And these are the pleasures I feel...
when I paint...
my being keeps still,
amid the hues,
against the backdrop of whiteness.
Where there is only me
and my God,
nothing else ever exists,
no one else.
Because between the space of this God and me,
is a blur
until I drown in Him and He drowns in me
As Carl Jung said: Nuemen, Nuere,
my God is within me.
I open my eyes and I see the goodness of heaven.
in the colors of love,
in my mind,
with my canvas.
There’s pleasure , too, when I write.
as I see the hysteria of goodness
of looking through
wrestling In a blank space but which is not.
I grope for words but not
In an emptied mind, because
I write what I experience,
I write what I feel
anywhere and everywhere
asleep or not,
alive and burnt out dead...
in ecstasy. Until the words explode
In my head then bind my heart into life,
until the euphoria of writing wraps into the living.
Until the words become verses of life
and not only in a poem.
There is pleasure in music.
As it distracts the pleasantries of the living,
It distracts yet it pleases.
It pleases, it pleases,
until I feel I am the song.
Until it echoes love yet it echoes hate.
Of hope. Of longing. Of desperation.
While the mind raptures in agony
and in hell.
Because where can I find tremendous explosion
of harmony in the living
Sometimes its only the music
to blame why human beings act.
That way. Of the dreamt. Of the scared. Of the insane.
What else is there in my pleasures.
This is when brain reacts
And finds the intellect useful
And makes me wonder why I can do such things,
And in the fight of things,
This is all I can say, eat my dust, baby.
sometimes it is nice to be lost in a world of confusion becasue it generates something such as this.