Chinese Sticks Of Wisdom

I have persuaded my pen with chosen ancient ink sticks from China ever in pursuit for the perfect poem I have opened every tomb and examined the intricacies of Ceremonial rituals that I may breach for inquiry I have awakened the dead, they stood erect, yet, my pen refused to desecrate them with questions I have meditated for counted years, yes, I have examined the inconsistencies in life, continually being guided to nothing more to a coin to be flipped I have placed such a high value on what I refer to the holy grail of poetry, one that would help me escape from this addiction of poetry As any drug, as soon as I pen a poem that I deem as gold, I see it peelings fall to the ground being it had been overlaid and hammered upon nothing In frustration, I broke my pen, as it cried, it bled its precious ink on my tired hands With the act of washing my hands, the ink would not let go, and a flood of discovery overwhelmed my as I gazed in the mirror I should have realized the wisdom of the ancient art of the ink makings of the Chinese Although their ink sticks did not foretell any sort of future, rather it's wisdom took me to the mirror, opening the answer to my quest The perfect poem cannot be placed upon paper, for as the mirror confirms, we are the perfect poems, yes imperfect though we be, it is that variety that inspires us with creativity Now my coin is well spent, as I am free to write, knowing that it is we as a whole collective that are the heartbeat and as a collective, we are the holy grail of poetry