Fishing for meaning:
Because you can play on the page like fresh snow,
Moving your arms and legs back and forth,
Indulging in childish gestures.
I write with the patience of someone who does not have any-
Trying to make sense,
Walking around my thoughts,
Sidestepping the ones I do not want to acknowledge.
I am overcome by my ideas-
Dreaming about another place,
That is more in my control.
Unlike my nightmares,
Which wake me with a jolt at random hours in the night.
Perhaps the world will begin to make sense one day-
As I begin to listen,
To the voices around me,
But especially to my own.
It is the way I am discovering myself that scares me,
A dance with my emotions,
Which makes me less fearful of myself.
Knowing I will always be there,
I trust nothing,
Especially my thoughts.