What strokes me the most

Is much like what pokes at me

My conscience is about to draft me

Into a consciousness that takes

Me to levels

Without a real care of a reputation

I’m exhausted with being founded

In my desires that keep me grounded

I want to wake up and am taken

To depths only created by inception

That  is also something

Rather touched on

My profession teases me into confession

What is true is also new

And sentimentally abashed

So I recover with feelings that keep

Me inside myself hoping to stream in

A current proactive with

What is concurrent with a religion

Of loving myself through it all

With strands of joy leading me

To my very own reception.

Posted by antozak in Poetry