I step back from the words on the page,
afraid they will burn.
Already distancing myself, a space created by confusion
and past fires that burn too brightly in my mind.
There is a chasm in between me,
the leap to understanding why
and wherefore. What happened here?
The sun rose. But nothing so subtle as that.
I'd forgotten how long ago I'd given up hope.
Some time ago, I stopped knowing what to expect out of life.
Or out of myself. It's why I began my diary in the first place.
To rediscover, to re-explain. To learn about myself
in new eyes, searching out my soul like a blind man reading Braille.
Words, a collection of bumps in my heart.
When did I start writing poetry
for a journal entry? Which begs the question,
when did I start writing poetry in the first place?
But that is a distraction,
taking me into myself, a land known and well-trod,
however in need of exploration.
It is the undiscovered country of those words never before seen that
scares me mindless.
Except that this is not fear,
and I am not mindless.
If I let myself,
I could be cast adrift into rivers of emotion
let into the ocean
and pass all cares in a study of
anything that happened to be before me,
my eyes unseeing,
intent inside,
as waves in slow motion lap against my breast.
It is hard to believe in reality right now.
Someone just cut me free of my cookie dough
and I don't know what to do
but ponder the changes in the world
and eat ice cream.