I wrote something yesterday, and I could tell you how I felt about writing it. I used to keep the written word to myself most days. I read, I don't write, I write, I don't share. I wanted to tell you how little I felt many days ago, and how large the world seemed. I thought I would have something else to type right now, because I have thought so many words and felt so many things. I'll let you decide if you want to read into what I wrote yesterday.
The day I wrote a new poem I failed to analyze where your eyes would fall upon the page. Without a pattern the poetry looks like you could destroy a whole life. I have not been the only person alive who took chances and felt the world as I was touching the ground. The days and the weeks went by and I took a day for the rejection of your feelings. Once I was alive I became further enmeshed in what you wanted to balance your life like, a total disk filled with water and the art your friends told you was worthwhile. I left part of me behind and I was ready to speak with you before I stopped. Look around, don't be lofty. The aspirations of those you have known are greater than what you ever imagined. The dreams you have seem selfish when you look to the future. You were not as able as you thought, you were not the writer you were told you were more, and you were aware of a pallid constancy to who was behind you, you. I deserved to say more to you, your self, and to the people you loved. I was ready to listen to my voice and engage what the days you dropped to basic desire were telling you. The deeds of your personal actions were given to a different state of mind. That knowledge, that understanding, that development was to be delegated by your constant thought to give more time to who you wanted to say yes to, who you wanted to give your time of love the most interesting level of creativity. There were many I said hello to, I would do so again. There were words ready to be spoken that never found the air. I wrote something somewhere never to be seen again. I once thought in the emotional context of a pen to paper for the personal desire to care, to express, to feel, to know that I was still there. I was and I am. I'm not a monster and I'm not what I dared. I loved the thoughts of emotional connection and thought in parts I would return to act on as fair. The time I was given was what the others I had found under the acts of deeper lack of direction desired someone to compare with real interest in where I would live with the tired conditions given by loving hair and the generous stare (there is more there). I don't have the same connection to contemplation, I won't live like that again. The stories others have told me I gave weights chosen by my love for the ear. When sensing your lack of decision, one can think in ways that leave you feeling an eligible hatred from others who lived to risk a rightful distance from the condition that was brought upon your cares. I know what I thought of this condition of written rhythm and voice when I gave it my time writhing in the bare method of your eyes in the time I was given to compare that vocal precision to what it sounded like when I gave new starts to the sentence, I lost serious interest in sounding like I was out of breath or giving you elation you didn't deserve or want to hear. I'll revise that type of rising emotion, I'll take who I am to new types of people I was overly driven to know could care. I have your time locking up with mine, I started an in on what I loved and the rest of the story might now compare. The rhyme I gave myself was greater than who I gave your mother and father the time to understand was still less than more aware.