Losing the Meaning

~Losing the Meaning~
~~Copyright 2008~~

**This looks overwhelming at first, right? Don't be intimidated! It should be smooth and easy, carrying itself along, and there are important points littered along the way! I appreciate your feedback!**

Whose works am I a fan of? Yes, there are those that I

admire, but I do not know their name or gender. They

are not published. Curiosity is their advertisement. I

only know those exceptional ones by a screen name,

and they, in return, know me as a just another person.

If you want to get to know me, read my poetry. Names

are not the focus, shouldn't be the focus. Art is the

focus. Word is the focus. This allows the authors to be

judged, not by how they look, how many books they

have published, what level of education has been

completed. We are judged by talent, and talent only.

They could be anyone, and I could be anyone, so in

anonymity we find strength. The authors I like most are

not pretentious. They joke with you sympathize with

you. People never meeting emotionally connected

through one small phrase. Happiness. Death. Nature.

Destruction. We are all familiar with it, uniting, creating,

enjoying the fruits of our words. We are simply one in a

community where we can express ourselves without

being judged for who we are, but what we feel. When

did poetry become more about structure than feeling?

Aesthetics have taken precedence over meaning. Isn't

poetry all about feeling? The published authors don't

necessarily enjoy doing what they do. They turn into

machines, pumping out copied dreams. But the copy is

never as good as the original, and mass-production

takes away the beauty of the moment captured. The

poets, true poets, are nameless until a time when they

find someone meaningful enough to share everything

with. Poetry is a part of one's self. It is an intimate

pathway that leads directly into your mind. How can

you publish a book of you? Prostitute your feelings on

the corner of a random shelf. The strange and dirtied

masses fingering your weathered pages. Does

publication make it more meaningful, just to have your

name printed? All that will protect that piece of you

from the world is a flimsy cover. You are left exposed.

Exhaustion is a heavy burden you carry now that the

deed has been done, but for what? Now you get to sit

and stare and watch as strangers read you, touch you,

fold your corners and tear through your aching binding

so that you just. Fall. Apart. Such a deep connection

severed. The numbness is disastrous ... Poetry, true

poetry must come from the heart. If it's forced or

planned, it will be mediocre. You can't plan your

feelings. I feel, hear, see, taste, smell, so many

overwhelming things. So if you go into poetry, go into it

whole-heartedly, for the heartbeat of my poetry will not

carry over to yours. It won't win me fame, or

potentiate blame; it will just breathe and beat, beat and

breathe. It takes on a life of its own, and I cannot

control the flow from my soul to my brain to my fingers

to this page and it's maddening. It's saddening. For as I

write and pour my life onto this empty page, it never

seems full. So many spaces. So many places a word

could go. But I'm tired and empty. My soul, my

existence is contained on this one page, this empty

page filled with holes. And the holes in my soul are the

holes in my life I must fill. I'm feeling the emptiness.

The darkness. The sorrow. To overcome... is to write.

Write on a forever empty page, hoping to scratch, mar,

or even leave just one piece of eraser behind to show

where I've been. But it's clean, even with my hands

bleeding graceful ink, desperate to complete this,

before I become dry. If the inkwell is dry, there is no

need, you can STOP! But I won't stop. I'll create. In

vain. There's no shame in following your heart, and my

heart is attached to my soul, and my soul is this

creation on this empty, silent page. If only those holes

would go away.