Tuesday’s filled organizing the pantry in my mind.
Walked to things I’d left behind.
Sorted, sort of, thoughts bubbling
like soda in a pale paper bag.
All of the things that I once had.
I’ve never known what I’m doing
so it all feels like nothing.
Can’t put it into words, naturally?
I don’t know a thing.
Only believe what I say I know,
so I am left believing.
Life’s weird to me.
Everything I get close to seems to disappear everyday,
so I push, throw, say stay away.
I’m weird to me.
Top shelf fell to the floor of the attic in my head.
Reached for thoughts that I had said.
Bending bent things, words folded
like worn wings trying to make good time.
All of the things that I once rhymed.
I never know what I’m doing so it feels like nothing.
Believe I’ve written that before,
would have to see to know.
Suppose that’s why I’m in the pantry
trying to figure out how I do what I’m doing.
Don’t think too much about it.
I think too much about it.
It’s life, it’s weird to me.
this is your life chuck johnson 