by Jacob Beilinson


Not a sporadic projection of letters,

A mere translation,

Of the sins,

Of the gratitude,

Between every pounding,

Beat by the heart,

The word of indescribable anomalies,


To the language of the tongue.


Dreams lacking truth,

Brought to reality,

As ink on paper,

Text arrives,

As imagination is dissipated.


Within the commotion,

An assortment of characters,


Between the blue and red lines,

Constantly awaiting,

A removal from its blank bounds.

A precursor to cursive,

Etched in the cranium,

A tongue before language,


From the furthest,

And closest points,

A search for intellectual thrivation,


By the tone of modernity.

JACOB BEILINSON: I am currently a Freshman at the University of Albany. I'm from Connecticut for the most part, a little bit of Long Island, now an Albany resident. Living apart from that world, exploring this new diverse environment has very much shaped me as a person and as a poet. Poetry is a part of my exploration process and I explore my processes through poetry.