Slowly release this thing,
feel what tension brings.
Moving, I wind with shade
past lakes someone made.
The sun went down and my laughs came up.
It’d been a while since I smiled.
I’d forgotten what that felt like.
It’s nice.
I am inherently happy.
It’s always there, buried down here somewhere.
The morning starts a story.
Noon’s digging, scribbling.
It’s action, grind, pain, heartbreak, black, and crying.
Smiling.
Smiling through the afternoon,
don’t like to talk about four o’clock.
Smiling.
That was dying,
like the handwriting changed for a while.
Night wades in, she’s singing her song, sounds lovely.
It’s beauty, kind, joy, unwinding, trust, no lying,
that feeling, finding glory.
Night’s writing morning’s story,
until we are all home.
Humming, the bees don’t chime,
no reason for rhymes.
Living, I’m walking home.
For now, the unknown.
Until night starts writing.
Something wonderful is about to happen.
I’ve always felt it coming.
this is your life chuck johnson 