This is my poem
My cup
My pitcher
My ocean
To pour my soul onto paper
To corrupt a white landscape
With this black expression
That does nothing for humanity

Letters formed to words
To sentences
To stanzas
To paragraphs
To pages
To books
Until words dance before my eyes when I wake
And ideas brush against my mind when I sleep.
This is my life
My journal
My escape
The only thing that will absorb me
The thing that will transform my twisted emotions
Into an edifice resembling beauty to be noticed or not
A redemption for my thoughts
A clear way to wash away the tar of boding.

Perhaps a gift
Or a cleansing
A converging of mind to paper
But whatever the case
I will always view this poem as...

Nature.
Nature to express oneself.
To be understood.

This is communication.
Internal communication to all of humanity
In hopes of finally being understood
Of finally finding someone like ourselves.
This is what sets us apart from everyone else

The ability to create everything...
From nothing.