i only write when i have something to say

i cleared a space on the floor

a place on which to rest my feeling, meditations, realizations

to let destiny be born

finding the carpet ever waiting, wonderment springs at the irony of it all

i don’t really like carpet, or floors, or apartments, or ceilings

or stuff that collects itself without much questioning or hesitation

grateful, yes, to have so much given to me

yet

sometimes, on days of mist and rain

i feel choaked, living a dry and pointless sort of existance

away from the realness of the earth on my bare feet

the wild air, so fresh in the sunlight hidden

i crave to be in that existence

where the boxes and structures of this societal persistance

are burned in cooking fires on some distance shore

to feel the exuberance that tiptoes into my dreams at night

in the daytime, amidst piles of paperwork and scholarly thinking

i long to run on the green grass alive

duck beneath the trees of an ancient forest

learn from the wisdom of all the simple profound things

locked away and hiding in everyday actions of living

character and charisma, equinimity

bareness and suffering, beauty, of life lived in connection with life

freedom from this long chain of events disconnecting the soul of the universe

from us highly educated and refined human beings

i long to give myself

every atom of my mortal being

to the places of hope, where strength and energy are needed

understanding, similtaniously, that i am in need of these places

of hunger and war, pain and bloodshed

tears

to create a difference

only take in what i need to stay alive

and share my blessings

my soul my strength

all that i possess so freely

to go where it is needed, where it can grow and give more

to show me the way to understanding, the way to teach this ailing world

of compassion and heart

good will and true love

that gives instead of taking

brings peace instead of turmoil

awakes the sleeping integrity inside the soul of man

only then, when i give my life, can i truely be alive