I’m unsure this is what you wanted
But you see I can’t write
Except to pray for something
Beyond my words,
And how can I shape my present cloudiness of desire
Into something legible and true and truly me,
If it’s still a blur
Because that’s soft and comfortable.
What little I can say for myself is not mine,
But I like the idea of writing in Paris
And living a life
Different from now.
Except I’m not nearly daring enough
To drop what I love for half a dream.
So you see all I can write
Is what I don’t know,
Penning evidence of something
I haven’t thought about yet.