It’s like reading a book with blank pages
The story you know but the words don’t come for ages
Rising out from the blank slate of your mind
And the depth of your heart between the spine of your life
They appear only subtly so
The words can form like a lotus being caressed by the sunlight
With the lividity of raw sewage and human plight
Setting quietly on the bed the children rustling
Crying and fighting, they roll into me like an avalanche
How to find the words to make myself full again.
How to string together the thoughts to make my heart not dead
“Set boundaries” the therapist says
The only boundary I know
Is the one I put up between me and everyone else.
Where’s this going. An hour. Sixty minutes.
A lifetime of problems. Not simple nor innocuous.
The people sing, the children draw in coloring books in the church pews
The preacher smiles and opens a prayer for the whole country.
All eyes close, no one speaks as the silence falls.
The children scribble. Is God in the church pews coloring?
Or is he standing eyes closed to the world?
Where’s this going. An hour and a half. Ninety Minutes.
An eternity of problems. Neither just brighter nor darker than before.
Where’s the lotus in this life I’ve written?
Where’s the caress of the sunlight as it blossoms?
Where’s this going. A lifetime. 28 years.
The pages fill, word by word, writing a story you never wanted to read
You turn the book to the cover, pensive you stare placidly at the wrong title.
Who am I?