sometimes
i read my own writing
and wonder what it's like to know me
hoping the words will open a window
let the clean air in
so i can climb through the frame
inspect the damage, avoid
the broken glass
turn on the lights
wishing the words would be more straightforward
yes and no
black and white
this is how you feel
deal with it
well, i feel done with dealing with it
in monochrome, shades of grey
stealing away the colours
of a cartoon landscape
i think that this would be easier dealt with
if i could see it all through stained glass
diamond-shaped panes
breaking up the scene, shattering
the illusions unseen
and through rose-coloured glasses
black and white become so much more obvious
to my strained, searching eyes
sometimes
i read my own simple, twisted writing
and i wonder what it's like to know me
not the words, not the straight lines
that curve around my soul
but the soft ones
that make up my body, that protect
my smile and my eyes
and the ones that lead gently down to my hands
twisting around each other
in some dance
that attempts to hide the constant urge
to write out my disbelief in the existence
of myself
yes and no
still escape me
but i keep finding shards of stained glass
like a treasure hunt, like some accidental quest
picking them up from the damp sidewalk
discovering them cutting into an open palm
and i take them, then accept the offered hand
looking off into the sunset
through the bright blue and blood-red
of sharp reality
sometimes
i find the words
before they find me
sometimes poetry works after all
