Odd the things to come to the heart after midnight. Isn’t it interesting that I take time to console myself with words that flow from my finger-connected heart instead of sleep. Writing has always served as therapy. Nothing new under the sun there.
Yet, for me, knowing one human connects with what roils inside lends me a glimpse of my answer(s). Late night writing for your consideration. I don’t expect this poem to make sense. I don’t even expect it to be “good.”
My only hope is that something within its tiny parameters falls gentle into another’s life. Sleep beckons. I’ll soon answer the call, only to wake and again ponder…
Why. I’ve lost my why.
The motivator that carries us forward.
Odd. Emotionally my connections remain.
The why is missing. I need to know why.
The sun rises. New days dawn.
New meanings don’t.
Emotional solitude’s prison grips my heart.
Breaths still rise and fall in my chest.
Summer swelter lends its lethargic hand
To the disappearance of why.
Rains squelch forays into the world,
Drowning out the question that nags.
Eyes awaken to blurred vision and oblique days.
Why lingers in dark recesses,
Plotting hopeless means by which to be noticed,
Languishing in apathy, fear of change, and criticism.
Why. I must find my why.
My energy, my daring, my love, my life.
Odd. Emotionally I can be such a mess.
This I do know, however. My why is not me