I’ve thought about it a great deal, this book of mine.
Perhaps that’s been
the problem all along.
Too much thinking.
My first book was just writing.
Writing and more writing. Non-stop words.
Then rewriting when everything got deleted.
This new one I have is jammed in the gears of my brain,
currently under stifled penmanship.
A draft here, a draft there.
Lots of beginnings, but no middles or ends.
The thing about it now is,
it should be done because
these things I’ve lived through and
learned from could really, truly
It needs to be written,
these milestones and miracles of mine because truthfully
all that happened before,
to me, for me, and around me,
is now keeping me
from things that should be.
My heart is yelling a story that
those who know me now
would never think to ask about and
I feel sorry for my heart when I have to say “not now, be quiet okay?”
I can’t silence it, that wouldn’t be fair to me or the pulsating,
seven pound, red thing because
I need it to beat and I’m sure it wants to do what it was made for too.
The most I can do
for that aching thing inside my chest is ask-not tell-it to
not to pound so loud.
Perhaps it is time to let
my little bird fly so that I can avoid the saddest thing.
Do you know what that is,
what’s a really sad thing?
Seeing something good, really good,
quite possibly the best
you’ll ever have and
not being able to accept it.
Even though, it’s right there.
Waiting for you and you just can’t move.
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