What you say is true.
Calling, Soaring, Crashing,
Creating Chaotic Forces.
It is Haunting.
But the simple answer you suggest,
I cannot understand.
The answer is the Enigma
Or is it the question that is the Enigma?
In me is a condensation of sensations
All contradicting.
Emotions bursting, spilling from open cuts,
Frantically trying to seal the wounds
It cannot be tamed.
Everything was padded
Now every bump is an earthquake.
Born into a preconceived future
Expectations to be fulfilled
Now indecisive and lost.
All around me a race
Fearful of being dragged,
I race without pacing.
A white space for my created complicated world,
I splash clashing colored paints.
And yet I have become to make sense out of this,
Sense that is meaningless and non-existent.
I wish to be
Little wild flowers fighting and growing
Through cracks of the cement sidewalks.
But I am
Trees growing wildly and freely,
Only to be trimmed.
I am
Waves fiercely running up the sand, roaring,
Only to be pulled back.
Again and again.
Never ending.
I am constantly left helpless and confused.
Then I remember my mother's love.
Children running barefoot, laughing, clothes muddy and torn.
The elderly volunteering at libraries.
The cracked hands of a humble artist.
The taped glasses of a devoted reader.
The touch of a blind person.
A love letter.
All so simple,
But done with such passion.
Maybe this is where The Answer is embedded.
-Written by H. Jones
This is a poem my friend wrote in response to a poem I wrote for her a few months back. I'll edit it later with my poem.
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