I am a poem on a piece of paper...
folded into an airplane and tossed across a room.                              
No one saw it pass by, or had the chance to read it.
No one realized or understood.                                      
For that brief moment, though...i flew.
The air in the room passed through its folds, and lifted me upward.              
There was pressure from above, pushing down on its fragile wings.
The two opposing forces, acting against one another.
For a short time it was beautiful.  
It was chaos.  It was stability.
It was my whole life.                                          
It was everything I’ll ever know.  It was everything I never knew.
It was faux.  It was true.  
I wonder sometimes if it landed safely.
Did it crash into the corner, somewhere underneath the bed?
Do the words on the page mean the same thing they did?
Open it.  You tell me...is one and one and one, still three?
Am I living or dying?  Am I grinning?  Smiling?
Are they just as much different as they are the same?
Am I just as much tested, as playing a game?
I feel it all pointless.  I hope the words change.                                                          I pray all the letters redact and betray.
Let the trees be the grass.  Let the deserts run dry.
Let the heartaches be clean breaks, and beggars deny.
I am convinced now I wrote this.   I can’t recall why.
I guess the means to an end made my first the last try.
the one and only time...
Like the time I fell down for a decade in love…
turning out to be time simply splitting us up.
Like the road through the forest that cut through the trees…
the journey to safety is dangerous indeed...
For that brief moment, though…we  choose.
We go left.  We go right.  We stay still.  We confuse.
There is pressure from everywhere.   Pressure to decide.
Will I crash to the bottom?  Will this work?  Will it fly?
For a short time it will be beautiful.
two opposing forces, acting against one another.                                  
my whole life.  everything I ever did.
everything I will ever do. It was me.
It was us.  she and him. we were them.
it was anyone, everyone.
it was no one.  
it was the flight.
the line of sight.
which makes a wishful thinking pilot light.  
Catch a flame.
Five-alarm.
The words that I wrote
They must have meant harm.  
I wasn't thinking it risky
drinking whisky
houses burned to the ground.  The plane... never found.
Heated words never read.
Heavy things never said.
I've always known how to fly far away...but never known how to land...how to stay.
So I write...fold...and hide.
So I never have to see the light...
          .... of day.