Incomplete thoughts, generally, complete me. Always, in my time.
Casually or constructively, I write what I think (or what I want to think) until it all falls together.
The unfinished thoughts – those bruised, blemished declarations, replete with erroneous expectations or rough edges – often lay latent in my journal. For a time.
Often intrusively confusing and so full of questions, the mandate of the message lacks even muffled clarity.
Those words will keep for another day.
12/15/2024 j.g.l.
It doesn’t take long
for nights to blur
into months
or years,
or beyond.
Fractured thought,
a broken timeline,
then barely
a fragment of
a second,
or
nothing at all.
Do you remember
what was there
before?
Memories often
disappear
just like that.
© 2017 j.g. lewis
Will you think a little harder, after
the mistakes of today?
Will you remember to check your ego
as you respond another way?
Will your actions, going forward,
be the difference that holds sway?
Will the promises you utter become
another debt you have to pay?
12/13/2024 j.g.l.
A warm coat, stocking cap, and a destination.
The early morning walk is comfortable and convenient. I arrive to hot and delicious coffee.
The city comes alive as I sit and write out my thoughts. I listen but pay little attention to other customers as they walk in to claim a morning cup of bravery.
This time is mine.
I write, generally here, first thing every morning.
I write every damn day. Some days it is difficult, but today the words seem to flow. I’ve got things to do later but, for now, this is where I am. It is important to me.
Intentions and expectations, at this moment, do not seem to matter.
I only write.
Maybe that is enough for today.
12/12/2024 j.g.l
A gash or bruise, scars and scrapes
across the skin. You feel it deeply.
It resides within.
The process of pain: difficult to
comprehend, harder to explain.
It is always there.
Physically, mentally, intimately; cause
or effect unknown, even unnoticed.
We try to keep it hidden.
Excuses of misfortune sublimate
the anger. Emotions raw and ragged.
Our time. Our wounds.
You do not see what we feel. How
can we heal when we won’t even
acknowledge the source.
© 2024 j.g. lewis