There are days when I feel like I’ve only got the front end of the parentheses
and I’m sitting here cross legged
waiting for closure.
I long to complete this vulnerable musing and call it a day
for I fear an invasion of
too much external influence

I don’t know if I am the one who will supply the second half
or if that’s supposed to come from somewhere else.
It’s confusing to dangle here like this
caught on the edge of some blunted knife perfect for housing
tiny unbalanced feet and perfect for
setting my heart beating
which inevitably contributes to this
musing in the first place,
I’m sort of thinking.
But still. Sometimes. I want to call it a day already
to close up shop and turn out the lights
but something within me (or without me)
isn’t finished yet. So we aren’t closed for business
and we aren’t open later and we aren’t about to call it a day
for to do so would be murderous.
So I shall stay here cross legged and try not to be so defensive
and make peace with the fact
that for now
I’ve got the front end of a parentheses
and a wildly beating heart.


The reader brings his or her own experience to the poem and creates meaning. Here is my experience.

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