the chest pains of admittance

For me, presumptuous self

is a form of self-denial.

I am lead to pride myself

on the false security

of comfort and familiarity

at the cost of what is

really the vexing

but hidden preoccupation.

This discoverable preoccupation

is boundaried with a sense of control.

I use my intent as a handrail

so as to hide from what really is so.

My use of meaning

and understanding

is always baiting me

to account for things.

It is as if everything

comes to an attention

frozen in time by observation.

Meaning then implies

an assuredness

that we do not really

live in the motion

and at the effect of all things

but we can choose to go out

into the real world

where all things

are separate and static from us.

Yes they are in motion

yet somehow frozen

by our mindful attention.

Every situation, by this method,

is essentially self-contentious.

My every account to myself

implies a postured self-interrogation

by all eyes attending

and by their immediate presence

that questions me.

I look out claiming myself

by doing so

in a dismantle of real self-esteem.

This in repetition,

reinforcing the resistance,

using my senses

to do recognition's work.

My story is filled with a vigilance.

I insist the invasion

of an invisible enemy.

I have the gift

of a guarded existence.

I protect a hypothetical self

from oblivion.

I am rigorous and in the custody

of surving the fill of the day.

There is an exactness

as my tomb,

keeping me unknown

yet somehow saving myself

from a perceived annihilation

by an acceptable form

of self in submissive suffocation.

It is an intimacy of self-denial,

cleverly starving myself

in small-minded ways.

I identify with its successes.

It fulfills a kneading from within,

a sense of smallness made whole.

The pearl of aloneness

is magnified.

Convictions come

as I am convincing.

I will be buried in forgotten details,

by the false claims of priorities,

by unexpressed emotion's

essential truth.

I have made my pain impress me.

I have private rites of passage

that I cannot identify.

I hurt as a way of self-definition.

Life is so vain

as if it is a self-experience.

But I wanted soul to soul .

No, I wanted unbounded soul.

I wanted to heave my guts

of all the interpretations.

I wanted to shatter my senses

for the falseness

of their dutiful tasks.

I wanted a self that would never

have to vainly ask.

I cannot know

of this process at all.

I am finally here

for the emptiness.

Yet, I am in pieces of a whole.

Where do I go

to find the essence

that is in everything?

Where, in time, do I find

an example of timelessness?

Why are my senses

always in depiction?

What mind of my own

could I have that has no story?

This pain of numbness

goes on unresolved.

Must I keep track

of all my miseries

that derail and defile?

All of my sins

are really expletives of isolation.

Now how I hurt is as a longing.

A longing,

until I have no words,

no bones,

no breakage left

to keep me separate.

And then and only then

do I drown into the whole.

I am swallowed at last.

And there are no more chest pains

of admittance to further my cause . . .