Inhale and Exhale: A Poet's Words Breathe

And then there are moments when words are a vessel,
carrying forward their meaning in sound.
Beyond that, they carry no meaning at all,
for words can be worthless when feeling is bound
to the meaning imposed by reality. Better
to leave them until some emotion is found.
And when that emotion appears, it is better
to write the words up without reason around.

Days like today, I can't seem to escape the poetry. Words flow through my head like water, a shifting tide but ever present, seeping through to anything and everything I do. I see the world differently, as a world to be read and translated and somehow shared - somehow, in a way so people can see and hear and feel the way that I do, with these words that never stop. It is at once tragic and hopeful; filled with possibility while falling in upon itself. This is the world I inhabit when the poet's heart takes over.

I wonder, at times, how I will ever find a lover for my poet's heart. My poet's heart is the soft insanity of my life - the heart that bleeds tears of compassion for others and suffering for self. My poet's heart is the font of all the words that seem to make no sense, because their sense is in their sound, and in their feeling, and beyond that the meaning is transient and useless. My poet's heart is why I hold my hand to the window late at night, to feel the cool glass and sit watching for a change that might only come if I can push through to my own reflection. Because my poet's heart believes that kind of thing is possible - that all things are possible if I feel them enough.

Who, but a poet, can ever learn to love such nonsense as I do? Who else can learn to believe in my magical world, have faith in the wondrousness of the impossible, yet mourn with me the loss of innocence and purity and all things imagined? Who will see the extremes that I see - without judgment, without scorn - yet anchor me to the firmness of center?

Who will love the breathing words that make up the core of my poet's soul?