Sometimes a pain

Maybe it's that gap between what I feel--in all its intensity, in its concentrated form which I can't even define as feeling.
Maybe it's the way it overwhelms logic, reason, language
writing becomes superficial--
like how philosophy gets sometimes
paper-thin asssertions about existence
about anger, love, hatred, our place in the universe
like a layer of skin which cannot penetrate
the thickness of the present, of ---a wordless (state?)
talking about pain beyond human imagination, about events like holocaust. Words, language, trying to put it into a form makes it less.
Less than the experience, less than being
History--like all forms of study is a ghost
like the famous Mona Lisa
only an echo of a woman
a phantom we chase in our imagination and make 'it' seem material
outside of time, she/it is all time
Sometimes, talking about things which truly matter is painful
it cannot be written with clarity
only the frustration is real
the process, the attempt--a trace
like faith
it cannot be said/written
it is not word, not action
it is not a memory, nor a planned act in the future
it is unspeakable, cannot be written
The word: 'I believe' makes mockery out of faith
faith, like our lives cannot be translated
nor transcribed
it is silent
lying side by side with doubts and confusions, questions of significance
So is our past
we in our shallowness speak
Write. Air our views.
But they are only a shadow of us,
traces we leave behind
A desperate attempt to make meaning
find meaning
but we fade
the essence,
the truly real moments, feelings, parts of existence
escapes us, they cannot be contained
slip past words like water
leaving the debris of all these essence
like the trash the tide falls away from
while I have the desire to burn this poem
so it can be freed to return to where it belongs