Sometimes,
I’m the bird playing outside the window,
and sometimes,
I’m the one looking out from in.
Sometimes,
I’m the singer caught in the song,
wondering what’s going on.
And then I’m the writer in the aftermath,
picking up the pieces.
Sometimes,
It’s my words,
but not my tale to bail,
and sometimes,
I take it in as my own,
giving it residence.
Sometimes,
the tangible begins to feel intangible,
and my world paper thin.
With poked out holes of unevenness,
I inspect,
widening their edges,
tearing with disbelief,
I continue.
What can’t be repaired,
never deserved to be there.
But what can be mended,
changes a world of despair,
into a world that was always meant to be.
And sometimes,
that could mean many things.
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