purely thin air

I sometimes feel or fear 

my poems are purely thin air

never to caress or care

or feed any part of anything anywhere

so nothing

ever comes out of it

Fear there are limits to where the pen hits the soul

pinching ink into bones

i dont know where to belong

Sometimes i am afraid

the visual realm

is stronger than my belt of words

my river of glow

that i push to flow

out of my chest and hopefully into yours

My ideas are getting sore

and red and less frequent 

am i beginning to melt

melt away from myself

and into the corners of numb relief?

Into a stream

a being without breath or food or sleep

And its so hard 

to do to do to be