all the little pieces

I watch you meander
around yourself
and it saddens me.
Seems you still can't quite figure out
your own face.
You blow about
like on a breeze
Sometimes you reach out your hand for help
Other times you blame the wind
for immobilizing your limbs.
I wonder what it's like,
inside that head of yours?
I wonder if you can keep the pace
with yourself?
And the lies...
Are they lies to you?
Or are they little truths?
Stories of how you remember, or,
How you want to remember
Somehow giving validity to your voice
and the weight of your shrinking body.
Was it always this way?
Or have the vines grown over the house of your being
Swallowing alllllll the little pieces
Making it impossible to form a whole...?



Experience. Freedom. Love. Now.