Whenever I place a pen to a blank paper
I pause like a diver on a high diving board
Looking down at the waters below, so far away,
So far removed from the casual air of everyday life
I take in one last breath of normalcy
I bend my knees, preparing to jump,
And I plummet into my soul, so far away.
Sometimes the decent is marked by angry white
Bubbles streaming from the mouths of tortured thoughts
The days gone by seek retribution, it seems,
As it tries to alter my writing, making it sad.
Surely, surely this must be hell
Blinded by anger, jealousy, remorse,
Surely, surely, this must be hell
Drowning in convictions, my own self-doubt,
But surely, surely, the bubbles will rise
And clear water must be left behind.
When this happens, I float there, silently,
Suspended by clarity, the world's true state,
And I wait for the light to strike me, as it sometimes does,
Allowing me to see a part of the eternal truth.
I write to discover this truth
The truth of the self, the truth of the cosmos,
I write for myself as well as for others
For if I find something worthy of recounting
Who am I to hoard it, collecting truths as others collect stamps
Keeping them secret as they were secret before
No revelation shared, and therefore no revelation found,
No great teacher only taught themselves
And though my wisdom is scarcely there,
Like the ghosts that haunt the diving depths,
Perhaps there is something that I can write
That will lift others out of the drowning of their minds
So that they may see the truth as I sometimes do
And become content with the days gone by
And the days still to come.