I have never seen myself as a poet, but the words are scattered across my mind like Autumn leaves soaked and decaying on a late winter morn. †I need to clear the corners of my skull, the piles have become too deep to keep inside.
I never do anything right. I donít know how to I guess. †Something in me must not be built right. †I step forward with the best of intentions and fail so miserably. †My face in the mud and damaged and broken people in my wake. †I should know better than to try and live amongst the world. †I was broken too badly so long ago to know how to treat anyone correctly. †I think this life may be too heavy for me. †No matter where I think I have risen to, it brings me back down. †Time to leave.
To be able to fly high above the clouds on gossamer wings. To marvel at everything below. †The beauty of a mirrored lake, to follow a meandering stream. †The regimented path of an interstate highway marching out is site. †Swinging up, the golden rays of the sun warming your face. †The gentle breezes pushing you along. †Mesmerized by the trees growing in tight clumps. Like if you traced them carefully, from dot to dot Godís great image would emerge.
But to fly so high is not meant to be. †We search for things beyond our limits. †The air grows thin and the mind plays tricks....