My Poetry I

I could say I am writing my soul,
seeking after the fulcrum of wholeness:
that point where all
the rows of a field intersect;

rejecting reasons, asking only the fact of what is
and accepting blame,
I seek to arrive at that resonance
that relies on questions.

Questions that are answers in themselves;
cause me grief and pain.
I may even write
while tears are falling.

Nothing helps with pain
more than sitting and writing it out,
a cleansing
in itself a confession;

letting go obsession, and listening
in the moment of now,
for a while I know
who I am and where I am going.

The truth that’s right
above any other judgment:
I was born to write.