Piles Of

My life is mapped out in piles across the floor.
Piles of all that make me, me
And all things I adore. 

The more I grow,
The taller they get,
Staggeringly uneven,
Leaning both right and left. 

The obscurity and shape of the pile,
I can’t explain,
Or even begin to sustain.
For the taller they get,
The more obscure they become,
The more I don’t understand the hand I have won. 

These piles in my life,
Are made by me,
And those close and afar.
When I add to the stack,
Ten times more is added,
By my dutiful pack. 

Leafing through the mountains of life,
Deciphering the papers from the books,
I map out my next venture.

 Double checking,
And rechecking the facts and figures.
Measuring the risks,
And counting my chances.
Drawing up lists and plans,
In hope that it will all work out,
And some day soon make sense. 

But for now all I can do,
Is add to the piles,
To manifest a life,
Where those piles become more than just piles.

They become projects,
That blossom into full existence.
Now fully visible to those near and afar.
Who now see me from the serious creative,
To the completely bizarre.

Eager to remove the clutter these piles make,
I want to set them free,
But not just for my sake.
For the sake of the mission,
Hidden in the creative vision,
That each pile holds,
Sitting there waiting for it’s story to be told.

Now come hither,
And listen.

We are all piles sitting on Life’s floor,
Waiting to be transformed into something so much more.

Aren’t we all?