online journal

it’s hell to sit here and think
my gawd, what religious veracity I have for feeling
for sensing every breath that is blown my way
as if it was intended to knock me over

it’s pain to lie here and believe
my goodness, what vernacular wisdom I expose
with every ramble that gets rumbled out of these fingertips
as if they were ever more than musings

it’s joyful to sleep here and wonder
my dearest emotions are being dragged through analysis
by those closest to me and those furthest from understanding
as if they could ever explore this vortexing space I hold highly in my own head

it’s satisfying to drift here and think
my lovely prose is melting someone’s stalled heart
or challenging those notions preconceived by authoritarian grammar school teachers
as if history was something new to be taught

it’s wilderness out here on the fringe
where I babble to myself most of the time
where the goal is not to impress but to sort out this mess
as if I could do that by simply writing a few lines about my thoughts.