Why is it when I was lost
I felt no misdirection at all
only panic filling my lungs with every breath.
And having found finding myself, alone,
surrounded by unknown uncharted terrain
I am filled with wonder and joyful refrain.
I didn’t know that I was lost
I didn’t know that I was lost.
In intimate rooms, filled with memory laden walls
on floors stained with hunger and desire
I felt empty yet complete.
On familiar streets, chasing adulation
giving my all, being one with all I touched
I felt hollow yet replete.
In homes and conversations
always the center of attention
loud, brassy, bright and always right
I felt the ground parting beneath my feet.
Thinking myself prone to maladies from allergies to depression
I re-enforced my crumbling mind
with food, neglect, and damn the cost
And now I find I didn’t know that I was lost.
Words Unwritten
Today I am throwing away the blank pages of my life.
Years of pages filled with silence
soaked red with unwritten pain.
The whites, the lined, the pastel hued,
the ones I had gathered to fill with my thoughts;
bound in leather or lying separate
sheet from sheet,
each accusing me of the emptiness in its life,
while my life fills, gorges, expands to bursting.
“Rainbow Scribblers” and “Ultra Brite Neons”
deprived of the touch of baby hands,
uncut into shapes to be pasted
or folded and molded to other delights.
Here, some determined to be acknowledged
my name on the letterhead boldly printed,
some with a logo of a dream aborted;
some faded with time, their dates barely breathing;
some loud in their prime, their days fairly trumpeting
looking ahead, to be filled, to be sated:
Naive with the wisdom of youth.
I felt the ground parting beneath my feet.
Thinking myself prone to maladies from allergies to depression
I re-enforced my crumbling mind
with food, neglect, and damn the cost
And now I find I didn’t know that I was lost.
Words Unwritten
Today I am throwing away the blank pages of my life.
Years of pages filled with silence
soaked red with unwritten pain.
The whites, the lined, the pastel hued,
the ones I had gathered to fill with my thoughts;
bound in leather or lying separate
sheet from sheet,
each accusing me of the emptiness in its life,
while my life fills, gorges, expands to bursting.
“Rainbow Scribblers” and “Ultra Brite Neons”
deprived of the touch of baby hands,
uncut into shapes to be pasted
or folded and molded to other delights.
Here, some determined to be acknowledged
my name on the letterhead boldly printed,
some with a logo of a dream aborted;
some faded with time, their dates barely breathing;
some loud in their prime, their days fairly trumpeting
looking ahead, to be filled, to be sated:
Naive with the wisdom of youth.
