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