Some days I just don’t have the words
And I’ve nothing of importance to say
No mammoth revelations or shifting beliefs that could permanently change my foundations yet mean jack-shit to anyone else
Some days the poetry flows
Others, the inanimate object holds my absolute attention
For minutes, sometimes hours, I stare
No output
Some days I’ve got nothing to give
So I take
And the object becomes no longer an object I know by name
It becomes shapeless and unfamiliar for my projections
Sepia toned filters
1988, I’m 6
Ex-lovers revisit with distasteful words
Damn them
Focused stares raise questions
That I’ll probably never answer
I wonder upon many wonders
Knotted desires unravel
And clarity arouses me
Until they ravel back
We get lost, the object and I
Suddenly there’s an understanding about not ever understanding what I’m supposed to have understood all along
Until my understandings pass
And I’m so fixed; I’m detached from the world around me
Then I begin to understand again
Until I don’t
Some days I just don’t have the words
And I’ve nothing of importance to say
But held within my stare lives a whole world of importance
The object knows
Until the objects name is resumed and we merge back into the realms of reality
But it’s not really reality at all, is it?
The object knows
