I write poems. I have for a long time. Some of them are not for public cosumption. Some of them are angsty and old and… telling.

I was reading some of them today. Some of my old poems. Perception is weird. Sometimes I like them. Sometimes I don’t. Today I liked this one.

The sun flew in

  Through the window

      And a newness sprang forth

From the darkness before

  Why do you suppose

The rose opened up

  Like I opened up

    To new beginnings?

A crowded room

  A silent street

What is the difference

  Always with someone

    Possibly yourself.

A cascade of feelings

  Parading through my mind

Like smoke

  Making shapes

    In a smoke-filled room.

I wonder often

  Awake

And in dreams

  Of the mysteries of myself

    And the world

I think a thousand thoughts

  All at once

And really nothing at all

           Like this.