pen meets paper or finger meets key
mind meets heart or i meet myself.
yesterday i wrote about us. a poem
about us to the tune of iron and
wine under a pile of blankets and a single floor
lamp spotlighting a blank page on my couch. dear
self, i asked in untranscribed thoughts,
what do you know
today that you have never known before? what are your
thoughts on your thoughts, and which of your thoughts
are really dreams and which dreams thoughts? i know
almost no
things.
so writing words and calling them poems helps me
mix. mix mediums mix tapes mix melodies
and when it's there--penned paper,
fingered key, mind, heart and self all met--i'm still mixed
up. lines between facts and dreams and thoughts are
blurred in syntax and i know no more
things than before. but when the paper is penned,
something abides, even small things. something
lives in the words, the creation, even
if that just means freezing sadness, giving a thought oxygen,
immortalizing one night's crazy for another night's nostalgia.
dls
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