I feel awkward this morning;
the plot is out of sorts.
I don't know my script
and shudder with looks
from irascible strangers.
Nothing fits, including me;
yes, the narrative is broken.
I want it all to be like
the stories say, but my
author forgot my lines.
I know where it went wrong;
it hardly matters now.
I wish I could rub it out
like graphite, the way
we started over as kids.
Perhaps I'll start again;
but I'm dull and tired.
I need to feel the sharpness
of life's edges, not live a
blunt pencil or spent pen.
And then it may just work;
square pegs in round holes.
I want a coherent tale,
not this jumble of words
that whirls and deceives.
YOU ARE READING
Fragments And Reflections
PoetryPoems looking at everything and anything not in my other collections. Here you'll find life and time, wild oceans and lonely coast paths, busy streets and empty hotel rooms, wild concerts and late night writing. All just fragments and reflections, l...
