Writing poetry

My pen moves softly across the paper, as I reach inside to touch that empty place. It is from this place my poetry springs forth. It matures out of nothingness, like a flower in full bloom, coming from nowhere. This is the place I try to reach, to rest in, to be in. I madly try to capture the brief moments where I touch the place. Such delicacy it is, and the pain of not arriving is only measured by a man deeply in love, trying to capture the sweet taste of his lover's kiss. In this he can only fail, and so he settles for the reflection.
To write from such a place requires courage as one's heart is exposed to the arrows of criticism; but if it is completely open, the arrows will miss their target.
Poetry is an apt expression of life; there are days when the pen moves smoothly across the paper, pouring out the innermost secrets of life, and there are days where the pen is best left in the drawer, so the sheet of paper remains blank.
I write from moment to moment, well knowing that it is a dance with the absolute.