Pencil dangle, teasing blank space,
Lines mix with lines entwined
With lines of endless nothing.
Blank skies, dull horizons
Inspire me not, for I am not, something I can’t be.
Gaps in time disappear,
End of life appears,
But not a word of summary.
Words escape their fragile form,
And warm the grey place;
Space beyond the eyes but before the soul,
The knot of the tongue where words reign
Pensive and unformed.
I want to write about something I’m not.
But I can’t; I’m not.
Living for today, as if it’s your last.
Never passing up a chance to be what you want to be.
Never missing the opportunity to be with ‘her’.
Always thinking about the next minute, and never wasting a second.
Forgetting yesterday, as if you could wish it away.
Never knowing why you didn’t go the extra yard, to be who you are.
Never feeling more deprived when it’s ‘her’ you’ve lost.
Always thinking about the last hours, and reliving every minute.
Regretting tomorrow, before it’s even happened.
Never having had such anxiety; not knowing whether to be it or not.
Never aching more than you do when you think of ‘her’.
Always thinking about the next day, and wishing away every hour.