Only the Deepest of Pleasure

I pine for only the deepest of pleasure.

Not the pleasure that sweetens my tongue,
drips down to my heart in a ripple of waves,
then crawls back up again, asking for more.

But the pleasure of feeding my soul
with my own hands, the gentle nourishment,
hearty and green, extending through my lower belly and beyond.

Not just the pleasure of emptying my heart
onto a blindingly blank page,
only to have more and more to purge.

I want to scribble my heart onto the walls of my room,
spilling onto the paved sidewalks,
around the block and up the hill,
to the ocean, scribbling in the sand,
retracing a spiraling labyrinth, over and over,
sinking deeper into millions of grains with each guided revolution.

I want to sit. I want to soften and open.
And just sit.

And experience my ecstatic body shaking,
my head hypnotically circling,
my torso rocking as dynamic life force
courses through the deepest of spaces within.