I don’t know who reads this;
but thank you.
When I think of writing,
when I talk about writing,
there’s nothing else I think I could do, would do, want to do.
I’ve been faced with people who pick up the papers, give me a quizzical look, and hand it back.
I don’t care for who doesn’t understand my words.
I care for those who do.
Poetry isn’t meant to be known. It’s meant to be heard. It’s meant to be felt.
And the vibrations of the scribbled down thoughts I create will only be absorbed by those resonating on somewhat of my frequency.
And that’s okay.
Because it was never for you.
So hand me back the papers and say you don’t understand because I didn’t give them to you in the first place.
I left them out for grabs but please, please keep it moving. Take it home, throw it out. Tuck it in your drawer.
The Universe lives on.
They’re as quiet as the air that flows in this world and as harsh and dangerous as the roaring seas.
They’re only for you, Ma.
I give it all to you..
So leave my writing alone.
Or stay if you must.
Just know the journey goes on,
the Universe lives on.