i got a message today
out of the blue
from you
but who is you?
and who reads this
late at night
processing these thoughts i've typed
wondering what i feel inside
but is it you?
is there a you?
changing in my head every day
a new feeling, a new desire
surrounded by things i can't have
things i think i want
until the next one comes
a fleet of fleeting emotion

i got a message today
i hope it was from you

or you
or you
or you

the stage crackles and throbs with sweat and spit
as his energy pulses through the crowds- our veins
are end-to-end with our hands pumping, holding
him up. He knows who we are and what we deserve.
We, the people, he fights for us- in every sense of the word
he stands for every single person in this country
and every single person in the world.

if i told the truth
would you be mad
think less of me
refuse to speak
blame yourself
become insecure
believe it wasn't true
or learn to forgive?

if i told the truth
would you be happy
think more of me
change your tone
pinch yourself
become comfortable
believe it was always true
or am i fantasizing?

if i told you the truth
would you be turned off
think i was needy
wonder why i messaged you
recluse yourself
become a stranger
believe we were never true
or would you agree?

if i told you the truth
would you reflect about it
think i can't be read
message me about your day
change yourself
become more mature
encourage me to visit
believe i am different
or is that even possible?

an inflection in your tone
some feelings overgrown
a sense of happy dismay
over the thought of you
wondering how soon
this emotion can run free
a beat with no embrace
just one quick taste
is all i need for now

there's a girl outside the door
i wonder if she's thinking about me
talking to other guys
always other guys
who listen
or act like it
difficult to tell
meaningless conversations
a mind surrounded
by those seeking a body
for a bit of fun
while i sit here

maybe i'll figure you out someday
ask just the right question
if you'll keep letting me in
then you can find out what i see in you

what is it about
small talk
that seems so small

and what classifies as
big talk
or something in between

it seems that even the
small talk
impacts our lives

and likewise
big talk
sometimes never does

Sometimes I wonder why
I lose the pen & paper
the focused rattle of key strokes
thinking about that next rhyme
or word pattern or wordplay
or whatever I want to write about...
why that all goes away when I'm content

Take it for what it's worth,
poetry, to me, is something to fall back on.
And somehow that's ok... normal
I wonder where those words go sometimes