The days seem so final
like gravestones.
They fall into a line of days
once they are over
that is solid like the blue lines
of white notebook paper.
But you ignore those lines
in time
and see the page
for what it has to say.
Sometimes I just see the lines...
Where does a poem go when it is unwritten?
Is it caught in a weave of air or,
tangled by a heap of stars?
Does it fall to the ground
mingling with the dirt
but the specks are the light in the brown?
I wish I'd knew,
I'd search for my adopted ones.
The people I see in a day
are not there.
Roaming is key
to living.
There is just a piece of them
in the corners of their eyes,
all else hasn't left the bed.
I imagine this is me too,
then plan to see myself more,
spend more time with myself.
She forgets when she sleeps
to see herself more...
I wonder why people say
a part of them is missing,
because I believe that part
is missing themselves.
We are only expressing
a twentieth of our
thoughts, words, and feelings.
Was I kidknapped,
or just lost in the hours
as they inherited lines,
turning to the neutral side
of breathing?
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