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.