Anywhere I go, a notebook follows. Larger ones for work, smaller ones just because. I find quotes I enjoy and feel the need to write them down, to enjoy later. I come up with lines without context and I pull out a pen thinking it could one day turn into poetry.
Of the plethora of notebooks I’ve had, the words are rarely revisited and the phrases are never used. Today, my dad found some of my old files and emailed them to me and I found words I’d written a long time ago. Just because I feel guilty for having forgotten them, I’m choosing snippets of old files and my current moleskin to include here in hopes that it gives them some justification:
wisdom, let it be mine.
love, let it shine.
peace, it will reign.
remind me of this,
again, and again.
Misty eyes of age that don’t see so much as they remember.
I think I remember why I used to write, what pain drawing blood could not reveal I poured into ink. But when a heart no longer bleeds and there is no blood to pump, when ink does not suffice, and I still feel lost, what then? oh poet. what is the cost?
When you are the master manipulator, the story is yours to tell and the truth is yours to change.
What a topsey turvey world
when the ceiling steadies
and the ground has no place for me to stand
your misty and your heat,
you pass your tears
to my neck from your cheek.
And I love your warmth,
and your breath mixed
in my hair
Maybe when I go home tonight I’ll flip through all the other notebooks that aged and grew heavy with doodles and scribbles for months at a time in my purse.