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.
the best thing I’ve seen all day is nothing
stained my deck
Got hot, wanted a beer
didn’t have one
stained more of the deck
looked into the woods waiting
He was always sure about walking in the rain,
but not about which puddle to step in.
So, he stood with patience, peculiarly
picking and choosing where to place his feet.
His mind always ahead, his body somewhere behind,
always adoring these walks in the rain.
find what’s great in the wind
and smile in the mirror
Climb into the cubburd.
Close the door
I’m going to tell you
about the time I wouldn’t
let myself write
I had to go to the bathroom
I told myself I needed breakfast
While eating breakfast
I told myself I needed to clean the house
I told myself
I needed to work
While working I told myself
I needed to exercise
I felt shame for not writing
I cannot write
I am no good
what would it matter
It is dark in this cupboard
This is when I realized-
I never knew
It’s awkward talking to nobody when it’s yourself
Have you ever seen you
walking underneath where you belong
catching thoughts with your mouth
It’s not what you want to do
But, the floor has other ideas
and when you close your eyes
you see more than you should
top-side, walking nicely
Our bones feel dirty after talking with them.
As if parasites are their words; each landing
and burying themselves within our skin, burrowing
until finally entering bone. Where they live
the rest of their feeble days knowing we’re unable
to wash the innards of Self. – Each day,
we grow stronger as they grow weaker.
We know this. They know this. Which is why
they struggle desperately to toss their toxins.
Don’t tell me about how much something is worth. Give me one philosophical line about humanity which will help people to grow.
There’s an unfinished poem in my drafts file.
Apparently I wrote it last night.
I don’t remember writing it,
but while reading it, I remember having read it,
and that I was tired and was unable to finish it.
It reads like a crying child who was never
given the support they needed.
Which, makes sense.
Now, I don’t know if I want
to keep it exactly as it is;
to let it live the way it was born,
or to recreate the lines and ‘finish’ the work.
Maybe I’ll never read it again.
I don’t think that’s true though.
Something about it is already
alive and even if I don’t
publish it, the poem will still be.
I like words. We all have them.
Yet, we use them so differently.
Some flow beautifully from mouths,
while others need to write them.
They can be stretched, measured for intent,
delivered with impact, or even severity, and all
each of them are, are tiny little sticks. Sticks bent,
and curled; all lined up nicely to make meaning of
our thoughts so others might also engage in our curiosities.
Thank you for reading and being with me. I’m thankful for all of my peers on this platform.