Worry the words
speak too little,
worry the music
beats too loud.
Worry the laughs
echo too much,
worry the time
flows too fast.
Worry the feelings
show too much,
worry the honesty
cuts too deep.
Worry nothing
ever falls one hundred,
there’s always some
crack in between,
someone else you
could have been.
Worry too much.
Funny isn’t it,
how some lines
drawn upon
people’s faces
smeared on their clothes,
stretched over their palms
draw them together,
the warmth of their voices
and the coolness of their existence
together at the exact moment
shake up the present.
And some other instance
the same lines
draw them
far away,
leaving the connection
that never was
in tatters.
Yesterday
I was a complete piece,
no scratches,
no leaks.
But why have
these chemical reactions
left me with
a bruise
that keeps reopening.
Like a hungry animal
in the wild,
why I do keep
chasing the bait
that doesn’t exit?
Paul McCartney sings, “Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.”
How exotic
are the things
we do not know.
A place.
A person.
A perspective.
Hanging unto
pieces of information,
living by
half unseen realities,
half imaginations.
How exotic
are the things
we do not know.
Alain de Botton writes, ‘Everyone is equally difficult and awkward to be with.’
