It's true, I think,
That sometimes I don't know what to think.
I toss and turn and roll all about,
Living without living,
Doing without meaning,
Accidentally planting soft seeds of doubt.
I think in Solitude
I become more confused.
I write without knowing what these words say,
Or what they will mean to you,
Dear,
Faithful,
Compassionate,
Reader.
This is such a selfish exercise,
Writhing for your approval.
Still I know I'll submit
To the hopes of finding a kindred spirit--
That my words might touch your eyes,
And soothe your mind.
This is my only wish.