I don't want to leave this
I know I'm writing chronologically other than this little statement
But I don't want to leave this
I must keep exploring, even if I alone care about the results
I care lots more about this than my usual poetry
With that I fling it out into the ocean without any fish to bite my bate
This I care
I care not to catch the sea-life
I just want them to see my lure and think it half-way appetizing
But if I do catch something
I'll pluck it from the hook it got grappled by
Gently tuck it into some slab of water
And I'll keep on exploring, while I swim with it.
I know I said I would go chronologically, but look, I had a lot to say already.
And it's weird-
I usually don't care about what I look like
But on Tuesday when I speak
I want to dress neatly
I want to be a good presenter, so the people focus not on the tangles in my hair,
Or whatever other petty details might distract them
I just want them to see what I do, and not me and all my faults.
That's something I've found with all this talk of identity.
I don't care to be beautiful or beloved (aside from by the few I know do)
But I want my art to be- not by all, that'd be ridiculous, but I want the same small and intense love as I'm so charitably given-
I want that for the things I make.
And I'd rather have it go to that than to me, if I had to choose, since my self self sometimes feels so false-
But the things I make never are; they may be allegorical or hyperbolic, but the truth is always there, imbedded.
And I need that to keep going-
Even if I sometimes recoil back into my physical self.
Art can be fearless; I cannot.
This isn't even helpful, or a real epilogue, but it will be soon enough.
Well I'm finished, I suppose
I'll be bound to want to keep on going
But it's due Tuesday
And as of eighteen minutes ago, it's already Monday
And I have laundry and non-artsy things to do
I think I just annoyed my best friend, over chat, accidentally
Since I'm pretentious
And she's down to earth
But she still reads my poems
And she knows me better than most
So she's aware of my faults
So when I tell her what she already knows
Which sometimes is so far from her own beliefs
There's a bit of "WELL, OBVIOUSLY!"
That comes back to me from the other side of Facebook
But in this state I'm content with my pretentiousness, that is, if it fuels me to make good art
That is my goal, after all-
This is shaping up to be a horrendous epilogue
Here, I'll try again-
It's kind of impossible
To be fully open, that is
But that doesn't mean I'll stop pushing
The thing about it is that
Though I may never be able to reveal all
Since that's how people burn out
And one who surpassed the edge said,
"It's better to burn out than fade away."
But anyways,
What I'm saying is that I want to reveal as much as I can
As scary as that might be
But what will keep me from plummeting off that beautiful edge
Is the hope that someone will take your hand when you offer it
And so what's needed is to offer it
If someone takes it, that is your salvation-
If no one does, you must keep going
Don't be phased-
I mustn't be phased
I can rip my ribcage all I want-
But what's needed is for me to take my hand
Before I try forcing my heart onto someone
It's the eye contact before the daisy is exchanged
It is the art of asking
Forceful fervor is what keeps the energy, emotion and art, only to be sponged back into my veins
I don't want that
That is selfish
I need a dear reader
So I can take their hand and guide them through the darkness that is life
Even if I submerge them deeper-
At least they have my hand, and eventually my heart, which can be their consolation
I need to keep trying
My heart was broken for the better because I took his hand and took hold of his heart
And the white light of creation washed over me and baptized me
It told me,
"This is what you have to do until your dying day; you cannot give up; someday you might have the power to make someone feel as deeply as you do now; just keep trying!"
And that white light of creation has returned to grant me this epiphany
You can't expel your heart to someone unless they've taken your hand
It seems simple
But it just occurred to me
Maybe I'm a slow learner
But I know the truth now, which means I can continue, instead of pushing forcefully against a barricade that could never move
This revelation tunneled beneath and now I am on the other side
I am guided closer to that moment when my art does something moving
It needs to happen, even if I doom myself
And I asked if this was healthy.
The answer I got was: No! Of course not! But you need to do it regardless, since it is the only way you can survive, my dear.
So I listen
For I must.
This is an epilogue-
Since I am about to start another story.
Please listen, dear reader
The world is dark, and light is precious
I have a slight glimmer of white light burning from my chest
May I show you?
Please, dear reader-
It means the world to me.
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