I tell my story

When I try to tell my side of the story/my end of
the stick swinging loudly strongly all bluster and
meaning…only (it seems to me) when I try to tell
my story; I stumble on words/ideas/feelings/things

People laugh make jokes move the ball toward a
different goal line while I stare and talk with drive
with stern direction toward my point/my didactical
effigy of thoughts on life living and motion

I should lighten up/should settle down should take
it easy; I talk too deep, they say, words scraping the
bottom of their understanding casting shadows of
doubt of swirling philosophy left damp and piled up

There is no stopping—though—no waypoint on this
long arc to awareness I must—I will—I have to wander
toward the end knowing there is no end and never
will be/never can be while it gets easy and difficult

I write words that mean something (to me) hopefully
others—more likely me—but I try to tell my story…try
to spread ideas/meaning/feelings felt deep on the
surface; inside I tell them the way I tell them

I don’t stop; I mean them. I feel them. They are real
words-real ideas-going toward a place felt seen
known without knowing; never been but I have a
map a picture all done inside in my eyes ears head

The story lands where it does, plants seeds where
it does, makes sense or not but where it does it is a
creation a moment of splendor—mine—but all in all
a reason for wonder and wander and welcome.

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