The impossible task of finally meeting ourselves, not in mirror or lake-face, when we know not of who we are, what we are made of. Perhaps because we are always changing, or the perspective we hold of our little world is always changing, little by little. And because of the iota in change and the slow passing of time, we lose patience with ourselves. We can't open our ears to ourselves all the time. There is just too much noise outside our body, besides ourselves. Now, can you really hear me? I can't blame you if you can't. Not just because you may not be reading this rant, but because even I can't hear myself clearly. Words are comforting, but utimately, inevitably, barriers. True and real feelings need to be felt, not heard or written.
to myself
like the wind these words
will caress your cheeks
bring relief with tears
as salty as the choppy sea
opening your chest
drowning out all
the other noise
to draw us
closer
I write no poetry today. Or it has deserted me. But it is okay. It will be back. Someday. Or maybe not.
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