Here I am... Questioning familiarity, so sick of similarity
"Life is too short for dust,"
The old woman croaks in her veranda,
Wisps of hair glowing white set against a dark, wrinkled canvas
She sits, sipping her rose water and reading the lines on my hands.
She always said she could see my life
Every trail marked with a single crease.
I'd always ask her what's in store for me,
But she'd answer the same, always.
"It's not where you're going that's important, only where you are.
That's all we're promised anyway,
This that you've got right now.
Hold on tight, and maybe you'll squeeze some life into this dried out world."
She never writes,
Doesn't even own a pen.
But we don't question, because she is right
And I am wrong.
Sometimes I am ashamed when she catches me,
Admiring my own ribbon of ink as I draw it across my page,
Forming words and verses and beauty.
Because beauty isn't something that can be captured with words.
"Words are only words, the empty sound of our hearts trying to communicate with others.
It doesn't work that way,
You have to find your own way to share your beauty."
She makes me wonder about everything I've ever been taught.
She makes me think
There must be more to life than the way we arrange our words.
But then, maybe The World is right,
And she is wrong.
Forgive me for saying so,
But here the world sits, full of generated artificial satisfaction,
Painted-on smiles and illusions of pleasure.
And here she sits, on her tired old veranda,
Buzzing like an old radio for love.
So I'll keep writing my words in the sand,
Because time is obsolete,
And life is short,
And beauty is too brilliant to rust.
The old woman croaks in her veranda,
Wisps of hair glowing white set against a dark, wrinkled canvas
She sits, sipping her rose water and reading the lines on my hands.
She always said she could see my life
Every trail marked with a single crease.
I'd always ask her what's in store for me,
But she'd answer the same, always.
"It's not where you're going that's important, only where you are.
That's all we're promised anyway,
This that you've got right now.
Hold on tight, and maybe you'll squeeze some life into this dried out world."
She never writes,
Doesn't even own a pen.
But we don't question, because she is right
And I am wrong.
Sometimes I am ashamed when she catches me,
Admiring my own ribbon of ink as I draw it across my page,
Forming words and verses and beauty.
Because beauty isn't something that can be captured with words.
"Words are only words, the empty sound of our hearts trying to communicate with others.
It doesn't work that way,
You have to find your own way to share your beauty."
She makes me wonder about everything I've ever been taught.
She makes me think
There must be more to life than the way we arrange our words.
But then, maybe The World is right,
And she is wrong.
Forgive me for saying so,
But here the world sits, full of generated artificial satisfaction,
Painted-on smiles and illusions of pleasure.
And here she sits, on her tired old veranda,
Buzzing like an old radio for love.
So I'll keep writing my words in the sand,
Because time is obsolete,
And life is short,
And beauty is too brilliant to rust.