Writing Is All I Have

I cannot touch you,

the reach is beyond a starry night

when the winds change

I can feel the loneliness ahead.

 

I took your picture down,

not to avoid looking at you,

just to give you peace,

my own well being a sweet demon.

 

If I cannot find a word

I write my own,

scratch out an idea,

replace it with anything new,

 

Anything that might help me lose

this urgency drives me to return,

so writing,

words are again and again and again

 

reminders and solace and love and respect,

desire and passion and worry and

unmet expectations

always asking, just, asking ….

Listening to the Moody Blues

When I was just a kid,

I’d listen

there were rhythms with such skill,

I would look at a stone

on the ground

with a different lens

by the way the music spoke to my mind,

and I never understood why.

 

Then one day I found this song,

the lyrics of which,

struck me,

perhaps she was in my mind,

yet it seemed

so perfect,

every word crying to be heard,

“A turn of the page
Can read like before
Can we ask for more”

 

Seemed so easy, to read the purpose

of ‘Isn’t Life Strange’

so fitting

telling us all to stop and breathe,

to realize the world the same,

perhaps not absolute,

yet certainly can we all fall in love,

yes we can,

for we do turn the page,

though we know

the words remain.

 

They could always be the same,

our lives, our loves, our words.