Oh so difficult to keep track of them all.
I feel like the woman at QuikTrip with an orange
Post-it note list of all the flavors her lover wanted in his drink.
Funny how she crossed my path on today of all days as
I was aching to help my soul make sense of itself and
Yet needing some time to process my own thoughts without
It pestering me at all hours of the day.
Alas it is a part of me and therefore quite crucial to
Be listened to. But I've grown so accustomed to doing all the talking
And it's a gradual adjustment at best. Unfortunately my soul seems
To be making up for lost time and
Crying out for the understanding I refused to lend it all these years.
It can be a bit confusing with all these voices
But I suppose that's why we're human.
Without obscurity, would we ever appreciate
The all too absent clarity that follows?
No, I imagine it would barely emit a whisper as
We leave ourselves sulking in ignorance
With our index fingers plugged permanently into our ears.
So here I sit in silence with a plethora of Post-it notes on hand.
My heart cannot be blamed for skepticism after years of being
Swallowed up by apathy. I trust it's simply waiting
Until it's sure it can be heard.
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