Vague Poetic Lines
What can I say that Rumi hasn’t already said? What kind of candid snapshot can I take straight out of my unbelievable days to blast on the internet? What can I say that’s different from yesterday?
My mind wanders, but it knows it is these, the same old untreatable sores it wants to exhibit, like a fine view at the d’Orsay.
The work that didn’t get done, the flame burning my home, the unanswered knock on the door, the interrupted dreams galore, the flower that didn’t bloom, the chrysalis that didn’t pull through…
I’d be letting the world peek in as I speak, but inside, it’s like an old dusty painting where everything’s blurred, and no one knows for sure what it is they’re seeing.
It’s like hearing your own echo under a bridge, a concert for one where the player is you. And no one’s coming to rescue you to tell you what a great show it was, so you have to remind yourself this is what you signed up for.
As unimpressive—maybe even weak—as it is, it doesn’t bother me. I write for my soul, and their roaming eyes. As far as I’m concerned, hiding in vague lines has some health benefits. You get the poison out, your mind is free, and no souls get pulled into your wicked yet enchanted mix.
