Scribbled notes, a word, here and there,
thoughts jotted down before they’re lost,
journals filled with rhymes from thin air,
failed metaphors erased and tossed.

Crumpled paper piled in my head,
stories that should not be written,
poems penned never to be said,
a single word had me smitten.

A phrase I think might become more,
a tiny twinge might be a seed,
a style I’ve never used before,
an allusion that might succeed.

Images that need description,
seeing a fraction of a whole,
each of these an apt depiction
of chaos in a writer’s soul.

Excuse me while I think this through
It won't change the world
It won't change mine
It won't make me love you more
It won't make me love you less

It's just that it's important how I think
It's important to know what I believe
And if I can't take the time to think
I won't have the time to think about you
It's the time of my life that I must confess

I began with the time I was child in the South
Then in a dream I spoke Arabic with Rambam
What is the difference between describing God
And asking for your rights as a human being
Once I know I will know if my life is blessed

But you wonder why I can't include you always
It is so hard to make you believe in silence
It is easy to share but only if we know it will end
The balance between devotion and discovery
Is to know what is love and what are regrets