My Life

It’s the space between paragraphs,
The break between stanzas, a place for waiting
Until that nest beautiful sentence hits you. or doesn’t.
It’s where the words which need to be said, aren’t.
Pages left blank instead, afraid of what they might say
It’s late nights, calling into the dark,
Spent wishing, hoping the right words will appear
Ready at my fingertips.
But they won’t.

It’s spending the night alone with the rainclouds
Hearing the pattering of the drops on the rooftop.
The more you sit and listen, taking in the scene
The more you miss along the way.
Each one a word that’s now been unsaid,
Meant to be written,
Forgotten as soon as they splattered on the ground.
Left melded, mixed, and mangled in the puddles.

Whatever it is, it waits for me,
Caught somewhere
Between favorite movie quotes and whispered song lyrics,
The ones which beg to take you anywhere you want to be,
Asking, if not answering,
What makes life beautiful?

It’s scribbling sideways
On any crap of paper available within your reach
Because you have to get it out into the world,
Or at least out of your head.
It has to be real, has to be tangible.
Because, maybe once it is,
Then maybe you can be too.
And everything you stand for, live for,
Can be something not inside your head.
Something logical, understandable, unimagined.
Something real.

It’s the sum of one thousand and eight things,
Not once defined or discovered.
Not ready yet to be