A thought can be a mangled mess until we take time to straighten it out and truly understand it. -M. Taggart
Sometimes I don’t want to write
and I do anyway
The voices are different
The walls are the same
and not, too
Doesn’t much matter
I’ll always write
and the walls
will always be there
Sometimes trust looks you in the face.
The smell of the book took something.
Birds sound best in the morning,
while you look in the mirror.
To be identified is to be seen-
No matter how many days combine
into weeks, years, and more,
our small goals to be discovered by appropriate eyes
are not so small. And the trees that weep
over lost seeds are weeping for the joy
and love growing all around them.
Discontent and unaware, please don’t let’s wake our minds and stay there a while.
Forgoing the hollowed feeling of pain-
A mind at ease may fill the caverns.
Although, I fear, if we achieve to make
all of our memories obsolete, where then
do we stand, and what mirrors will we know.
I kept looking for myself, but at some point I had to move on.
You will meet better people than me,
but you’ll never meet anyone like me.
Not being interested in fitting ideals.
I admire the yellow-
while rejecting Purple’s purgatory.
I am nothing
other than myself,
and I am very comfortably
I’m almost ready to write.
It’s a strange feeling knowing that I’m putting if off.
A purposeful thing found in the back of a thought,
lingering, like a vibrating sponge left on the beach
just out of reach of the waves.
Soon though, I will.
Maybe I’ll remember some of it.