There Is No Space For Sorrow. Poem by RIC BASTASA

one day i write and feel that i am all hands
just hands arising from the little existences of my fingers.
i write about anything and i don't really bother what is it that
bothers me that bothers you. This intellectual itch that keeps on moving inside our brains our hearts, this restlessness, this
spacious injuries that reach as far as the next universe imagined.
writing is groping in the dark. You are trying to feel your body.
when you close your eyes you see most in fact, and feel the
rudiments of your soul.
morning is a basket heavy with smooth ideas like fruits and scented like flowers. It is a beautiful day.
i like to write about beauty. The things, the scenery outside my window. But these do not last for a long time.
My eyes focus back on the monitor which also monitors me.
How is honesty? How honest have we become beyond the
flashes of the camera on the smiles we give to people.
Life is a tragedy. All lives are.
But who wants to spread tragedies to those who are already suffering the tragedies of their lives?
we do not want to hurt. We are hurt already.
To hurt the world further would be too much.
There is a mission to writing poetry.
Or the stories that we write.
We re-arrange the mess.
Early morning after we rise from that sleep we comb our hair.
Fold the blankets. Put the pillows in place. We wash our faces.
We flush the toilet. And so on and so forth.

We open the window and the door.
we go out the room and we close the door behind us.

The room is neat and orderly now.
The house is big. And the backyard is waiting.

Hence, there is so much to do.
There is no space for sorrow.