Maybe if this was just a bit smaller.
That, a bit bigger.
If I could will myself to erase all those words,
Instead of storing them for some project that wont happen.
A place for everything
And everything in it.
It is.
A backlog of images, visions and scribbles.
Lines and sentences, that no longer hold meaning,
But once were dripping with it.
The man who made time, made plenty of it.
Well it doesn't feel like that, right now.
Long sleepless nights
Days that speed through to darkness, again.
Waking at the end of day, to catch the stars,
Some sight that glowing orange slice of moon,
Maybe the only perk of being woken so late,
When finally asleep.
I would welcome that empty feeling back now with open arms,
Ive been so filled with the trappings of people and different places,
I wish I could just unhinge for a moment and let all of their everything come tumbling out,
Spilling like a loaded wave of sea; fish, clams, crabs, shells, and the particles of stones and
Rocky cliffs long eroded by the salty water.
Only to close up again, shut tight, with only myself in myself.
What a relief that would be.
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