constant

I'm listening to strangers tell their life stories

in brief snippets; in Hellbound chapters

and dark alley thoughts

I'm watching the rain

and wondering - how many writers

sit and watch the drips, wondering where they are going

and how they connect

It's such an old thought and an overdone line

that I cant imagine the answer

I'm in here - you'll have to find me (please find me)

it's all just fear; all of it

What Iwasis sitting inside of me

Buddha-like with golden skin

and she's quite content to hide in thenow

I've done this and this and this

and some of that

I've hung my medals on walls and bedposts

and scrawled "Try harder" over them all

I'm scared of fucking up now

I've been on my knees for too long

in all the wrong ways and from entirely wrong angles

writing it out comes too naturally

opening my mouth to speak feels alien sometimes

but it works still

My turn and what I say is impressive

It's written all over their faces in the marker pen

their name tags are scrawled in

But if it was that impressive, why am I here?

Starting again (again) 

and my revolving coffee cup

does nothing to distract me

from the realisation that the same fear

is all over in this room

Should I cry?

or not feel alone any more

SRWB 2010