I don’t often write poetry on this blog (or much at all since I left college), but here is what I wrote today:
I’m playing with fire for a reason.
I’m learning to ask and to answer.
I’m reading between the lines, and finding passion there.
I’m treading water with relish.
I’m walking into oncoming traffic and finding that I’m not the only one here.
I’m raiding the refrigerator, leaving only the ketchup.
I’m harvesting my own organs, not exactly sure where they should go.
I’m making sure that everything is rusting around me.
I’m stuff pillows with whole sheep.
I’m roughing it.
I’m starting to inch my way out the door. At least, I think it’s a door.
I’m french kissing disaster, foreplay with potential.
I’m opening my coat and letting the cold breeze fill up my sleeves.
I’m laying in a bed and breakfast, waiting for the morning paper.
I’m still here, despite all my posturing.
I’m still thinking, despite all my action.
I’m still waiting, despite knowing the direction and location and result that I want.
I’m still waiting.