poems written on the fly

It’s never about what I think it’s about

In art, d. james, literature, poem, poetry, writing on 27 May 2007 at 4:51 am

Say one thing
mean another
think a third

How do we
communicate
when nothing
makes sense?

Unconscious animal
moving through
the day

Trying to find
meaning in
a word
a look
a gesture

Knowing there
is nothing I can do
to stop these random
inaccurate thoughts

From creeping
crawling
making themselves
known

But I keep thinking,
someday
all this will make
perfect sense …

Someday

(D. James)

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