I crave the right words.
“They’ll solve any problem”.
Name it. Shame it. Smoke it out.
Smite it without sentiment.
I must believe.
Poetic conceit. OCD
in a river of confusions.
Order in chaos,
in the mystery of my
own despairs, questions, hopes,
doubts. Secrets.
So… each day I
hunt the elusive truffle,
the best way
to capture a tiny
hidden reward.
I’m not “sad”. Not depressed, really.
I carry stubborn sorrows.
Grief,
and that comes as
a shock. But…
You can’t push the river.
I’m looking for the waters
from a deeper source.
Not money or fame,
not love nor lust.
Nor man’s God nor faith…
I’ve chased them all, but
I’m thirsty for the water from
a deeper well.
Yesterday, I sat with my
despairs, my angers
and after a while,
they confessed
they are really just grief.
“Sometimes,” Anger said,
“they’re fears, too.”
Regrets. Loneliness.
Loss so deep the ache
may be permanent.
I hope for the right words,
In the midst of despair
comes hope.
There must be a pony
in the pile of waste somewhere.
There can be beauty
amidst the mediocre bits
of an ordinary life.
With the right words.
