Some have asked why I’m restless.

I’m always moving, I never stop.

When I’m reading, when I’m writing,

especially scribbling on my table-top.

I promise, I’m just as focused on this as the next guy.

It’s just that people get skeptical when they see me in their mind’s eye.

 

I sit down. I stand up. I shake it off.

Our world is ever changing,

and our thoughts are just trying to keep up.

My movement is my thought process,

And these words are my history books.

The things I write versus all that I see, and some that I overlook.

But you know,

there’s just something about paper that makes it all real.

Because if we “just” say things, do the people really hear?

I think it leaves something to be desired.

Something I yearn to hear.

I want to know,

What did they think? How did they feel?

Personally,         

I know that if I can see my words,

then they can’t be washed away.

                                                Not by he, she, you, it, or they.

I write to keep tabs on the things I know to be true.

                My thoughts. My feelings.          

My whole goddamn ordeal.

Sometimes writing it down is truly the only way to organize how I feel.

 

First, I sit down.

I digest all the information.

What happened?

                Was it him? Was it her? Was it me?

Do we know why they acted that way in the land of the free?

Then, I try to cluster my data.

You know, I try to figure it out.

                Put all my information in groups.

                Keepin’ it logical for the troops.

                Perhaps there’s reasons they did it

                                For our nation?

                                For our world?

                                For me?

Now, I try to figure out a solution.

                I wonder what I should do.

                Where is my energy is best spent?

Do I make excuses?

Do I accept what’s transpired?

Maybe there is some justification, something uninspired?

 

Then, I stand up.

I get angry, maybe sad?

It could be, I’m not satisfied.

I just harp on “Why did this happen?”

                I try to think perhaps it was money,

maybe even love?

I ask for a reason, something I can make sense of.

Something my brain is more willing to understand.

                Expressing my emotions is just another way to keep them from “getting outta hand”.

I think. I scream. I search.

                Some answers we all can’t find in church.

Why did he, she, it do that?

                What did they mean?

                                Do they really think the things that make me different are unclean?

I can feel my emotions are at a high.

                My words are jumping off the paper.

                Believe me, you can see it in each line.

                                Right there, all my thoughts, my fear, and even my anger.

 

Finally, I shake it off.

I try to come to terms.

                With what I’ve written and what it confirms.

This process is necessary.

I not only need to, I have to write.

                It’s something I use so my thoughts can take flight.

Cause as the days move forward, people forget.

                Things are more important than these feelings, I guess.

The words on my paper are my proof of receipt.

                Of the feelings incurred.

And my ideas secured.

And now that I know my thoughts are on tap,

I can finally keep tabs on all of this life’s crap.