Is anyone listening, is anyone reading? Poems written in haste, you know the rhyme, got no time to waste.
Tears flow through my fingers, words from a far away time and place? Or are they from this morning?
Another empty cup of coffee, they disappear so quickly.
Another morning of solitude, they come and go so quickly.
The years flow through my fingers, emotions and scenes from the past and future, meld into the present. What I am, who I am today, is nothing compared to who I will be, what I will be tomorrow. It is only a step, a footstep towards one destination in a lifetime of destinations.
You know the line, “are we there yet?” Stop worrying about when we will arrive and enjoy the journey, enjoy the ride. That’s where the stuff of true living is:
The doing and the watching, learning and feeling, the scars of non mutual love or desire, the sights and sounds of passing cities and neighborhoods.
Rejections, acceptances, false understanding of others, songs with forgotten lyrics recalling times of smiles and strange dancing. Death, birth, departures and arrivals, ETAs and ETDs, failing health and revivals. Faith in higher power and questioning life’s strange shocking turns of circumstances. It’s part of the ride… It’ll make you feel carsick but you will adjust to it all.
You write your pain and your freedom, in words that sometime rhyme. You express your inner fears and courageously climb the highest peaks and descend unknowingly or perhaps with full intent, towards the lowest peaks…
Is anyone reading these words?
Is anyone being touched, tapped or prodded?
If words are written and no one acknowledges them, do they have any reason at all?
The empty cups of coffee, the pockets with holes in them and my battled scarred heart. Are they all simply events or do they possess a higher meaning?
A tap on the shoulder that lets another know that they are not the only ones…
Scars are universal, some are apparent others can only be seen through understanding. Some are hidden for fear of being revealed to be flesh and bones and not the gods we thought we once were or were meant to be.
It’s all right, well, not really all right, but we will keep on moving ahead. No other choice but to keep on moving ahead.
So we refill our cups, we massage our scars and we will write down our purposely confusing rhymes and metaphors. In the end… we are trying to express ourselves in cryptic ways that will touch the ones who are in the same position. They will get it even if it goes unread… it heals.