#16
Confessions
At some point I have come to the conclusion
that I don't really know what I'm doing.
My life is simply a seeming unending
string of coincidences without connection,
and I am merely watching these unfold
with passing interest.
After all,
the times when I sit on a toilet,
my pen in hand - writing,
or the times I watch a computer
screen alone and it seems like the same song
keeps on playing again and again,
are all rather dull.
I am not saturated with beautiful sunrises,
and there are few stars in the crystal night sky -
it just happens to be cloudy, easily forgettable.
No fights - men screaming like fire - nor long days
of holding onto love without a care of what the streets think -
those days seem far gone, foggy and forgotten.
And roads hurtle me down crooked valleys,
the green branches of trees grab at me;
the next step seems to always be over a cliff.
I feel I must be constantly plummeting,
wind caressing my face and messing up my hair
like an old lover reunited and suddenly remembering
why she loved me in the first place.
There are hours and days and years
in which the simple beauty and elegance
of blades of grass tickling my feet giddy
pass me by as my mind constantly tries to understand
just how I had gotten here, how I had seen
all those mundane mysteries; but I cannot
seem to find their names.
Though I've realized I have no idea
what I'm doing in these modern woods,
wrapping my blanket tight to not let anyone in;
I must confess to myself
I miss the grass and stars.