Day-Old Writings

 

Today I am thinking about the poem whose

words I could not find. The writing recreated in recess,

repeating the same old lines: looking to find my own. A word

buried in a cliché held to the page with a lingering touch: I cannot let go.

 

Today I am thinking I should let these words free

give them a new master, a kind, gentle master. For these words

betray the poverty of my voice, my perspective, my heart

as they say far more then I could ever intend.

 

Today I am thinking about how these words do not translate

my voice well. They leave my soul hungering to communicate

but my mouth only full of silence. The page, on which they appear,

an empty dinner bowl. The scratching’s of a young child's chalk on a

wet sidewalk.

 

Today I am thinking about how I use these words to hide my inner voice,

to leave my soul unexpressed, a reflection of human interaction: a slow dissolving

of one another. I am ashamed in this aspect, but I don’t think they want to know me:

these words or those whom I might share them with; instead, these words start

from their mind, and do not lead to an encompassing hug.

 

Today I am thinking, instead of writing this “poem”