Scratch my head, sigh,
touch my lips, shift weight to the other hip.
Fingers rest upon the keyboard
waiting for a thought to direct them.
Eyes staring at the glossy black keys,
the desk lamp light refracted, outshining the fading,
white depiction of each letter.
My mind wanders,
vision blurs at the edges,
What is worth writing down?

Sigh, breath in and out,
details of an idea, perused, again,
folded over, scanned, magnified,
strung up on corkboard
interconnected with a web of lines,
hinting, searching,
How to say what hasn’t been said
about what hasn’t been seen?

The colors, the shapes, the symbols
that play behind compartments of what I know.
The parallels I rely on, the juxtapositions I distort,
all trying to speak something,
hinting that there are answers in the universe.

I use to think I would find answers,
but the longer I live the less I believe there are any.

Scratch my head, sigh, touch my lips, shift weight to the other hip.