I, I have discovered, am an unsortable sort of man.
I open my mind to the pages before me
And the words fall out. They drip
Like extra paint onto extra walls
Or blood too rebellious to stay inside the confines
Of racing veins.
I, I have discovered, am the sort of man that must write,
To keep locked tight the breath in his lungs.
Every word has a soul inside me, a body and a life
And don’t they all deserve a chance at living it?
How can I stop now and leave widows of words
As those they found love with were destroyed by
And buried beneath the bombs of my apathy?
I, I have discovered, am the exact sort of man
That fixes, or tries, the broken around him. I pick up
The pieces, whatever those pieces may be and wherever they
Have fallen from, and try to find the picture they once made.
I am the painstaking and careful tying of a popsicle stick
To the broken wing of a broken bird.
I am the breathless wonder, whether or not
She ever finds flight again.
I, I have discovered, am the sort of man that cannot help
But believe. In myself, in every single body else, in something
Bigger than all of this, in Hope and promise and the
Unstylish and embarrassing dream that we can still be
Exactly who we have always wanted to be.
I, I have discovered, am an unsortable sort of man.
If it is filing and sorting and finding order
In the orderless that suits you,
When you come upon me to file, I offer now
My most sincere apologies.