I am half-writing poetry in droves. One line down, and the page is flipped again for something wholely new.
My thoughts have become puzzle pieces scattered in a 20-gallon tote, the pictures unknown so I sort by gut instinct.
This one goes here, I think. Maybe? It could; I could make it work.
Or maybe I'll rearrange it all later. I'll find the corners, find a point to expand upon until the picture becomes clear.
Some pieces will sit forever, abandoned as everything around them begins to make sense. I will wonder someday where the rest of them went,
but for now, I am learning to be okay with incompleteness.