I’m wondering as I write this
about the purpose of this poem.
The people it is about will never read it.
The people who need to will never hear it.
I find myself more focused
on the clean lines of this paper;
on my writing being scratched into existence,
re-etched into my mind.
I’m wondering as I write this
about that very fine line;
the line that divides what is mine
and what is your own business.
I never seem to understand
that sense of intrigue, or interest
which makes my life your blank canvas,
your endless unpaved road.
I’m wondering as I write this
about where I’m going with these thoughts,
and I’m feeling like I’ve traveled a thousand suns
in the past two days.
Everything has changed
but it is still all the same,
and I’m lost in battle, missing in action,
re-drawing that fine line.