I worry, if I write my soul,
There’s no one that would understand
And so, as if some ancient scroll,
I translate for my brave new land
But here, a word has lost its meaning
And there, a tune has lost its singing
And somewhere along the way has gone
The very thing that I wished put to song.
And yet, I worry, if I write my soul,
No one could ever understand
And maybe, the glass might be half full,
But that doesn’t mean it’s not half full of sand.
And, who could be that keen on drinking?
Better to reign as queen of over-thinking:
And decree instead of glasses, better a box,
And better still to double-check it locks.
The less I do
The more I come to be
What can I do?
How do I contend with me?
I’ve imagined each scenario,
Examined with a fine-tooth comb;
Will it be failure pronounced in stereo,
Or a fairytale until I’m home?
Will I be a disappointment?
A catatonic mess?
Will I choose “fool” for my employment,
Or will I dazzle and impress?
Will he be ashamed to claim relation?
Will the day ever even come?
Or will he rescind my invitation
Long before it’s said and done?
If I wrote, and only wrote,
Without stopping off to think,
Would it undo this little curse,
Or would it turn out only bleak?
Could I find words to keep writing?
Would it sound in ways of sense?
Or would I be swallowed down
By cursed diffidence?
I am not one who speaks a word:
I only repeat what I’ve heard,
And tell to those who’ve told me twice
“There’s more to this little thing called life!”
I know well my own perceptions;
Less if they are shared.
And so I keep to my own silence;
Best to be prepared.
I’ve tasted the fruit of the garden;
I’ve opened Pandora’s box.
The one was like letting the dark in;
The other one tasted like socks.
I’ve opened my eyes to the sorrow;
I’ve closed off my mind to the good.
Today is repeated tomorrow;
Only yesterday teases of “could.”
I’ve fallen down into the ocean;
I’ve dropped the ball into the lake.
I’ve flown too close to the sun;
If only I’d been less awake.
I’ve left the mirror all shattered;
My image seems to’ve gotten stuck.
The truth is much kinder when flattered…
Here’s to seven years of bad luck!
Don’t forget today
In the fog of what should be,
In the fear of what could be;
Don’t allow yourself to turn away.
You’re trying to find perfection;
But life gets no second draft.
Still, you go on thinking
You’re a failure to your craft:
You should have got it right by now,
You should know what to do;
But trying to rewrite it
Won’t make that first draft untrue.
It will be what it will be,
And still there’ll be no second draft;
So why not take a breath and read
The story as it’s meant to be, at last?
My thoughts are my letters,
That never get sent, sir;
My thoughts are my letters
That never get done.
I mean to write letters —
But some are much better;
I mean to write letters,
But they’re never quite done.
They’re there in my mind, sir:
My kindest of letters;
They’re there in my mind, sir,
But what can be done?
Best left to their betters,
These thrice-cursed letters;
Best left to their betters,
For I am quite done.
Not every word is first and last;
Not every sentence makes a masterpiece.
Not everything’s the epitome of profound…
And not everything has to be.
Addendum: This is apparently my 500th blog post. Now isn’t that ironic? 500 imperfections in, and I write about not everything being perfect.