A story of myself, not for the sake of listening,
writing for writing and collecting my thoughts;
(jumbled and rambling as they may be)
In the end, I find it by skimming the surface
and tripping unexpectedly into the depths of thought,
collecting these fragments of word and phrase
as an alternative to drowning in myself.
(not the worst of deaths)
Still awake and ever breathing
pushing this pen and paper to the limit,
black ink that bleeds from the heart of my mind;
I'm limited only in feeling and content,
(of the poem, of my pen)
for if the paper ends there's a table beneath it
and a carpet beneath that.
(keep digging, I'm sure you'll find something)
The words come easily enough,
(not to speak of making sense)
at least not in poetic fashion;
I shape, mold, and convince them to be
the best and barest parts of me.
Or at least what is left at one in the morning;
it's enough that I ask myself to share,
but to speak of making sense?
these words are my story
(though not necessarily the story of me)
and when I call them to attention
it's too much to ask for straight lines.
(arrogant even)
I'd rather a picture were formed.
I lose myself in myself without getting to the story,
(the point of this was to find something)
and fingers tracing lines in search of significance,
is little but stalling,
(am I afraid of what may come?)
and distraction.
Everything of importance seems to leave me behind.
So kissing my own lips, I try to love myself,
(this used to be harder)
but it helps to know I'm not the only one;
Appreciation is always appreciated,
especially when it's my soul I'm baring,
(fragile, flawed, and just a little broken)
Although I'm sure it would be less so
if I'd just stop thinking of it that way.
(I never seem to learn)
Then I open my eyes to greet the return,
growing like a sunrise spreading its light,
and warming the darkness to being something else;
Although radiance is often what creates the deepest shadows,
and I can't be complete with shading and depth.
(maybe a little less than before)
And within this story, not to speak of scars,
(those faded and not so)
this is about the dawn.
Honorable mention
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