I stare at the words in front of me,
The blank space below them,
The keys beneath my fingertips,
The possibilities I could bring to life.
Story lines bud in my mind,
But I hold back from letting them blossom,
A bubble of light rests atop the water,
Glimmering and glinting across the lake.
It’s a pocket of sunshine,
A pillow of glowing hope,
A pool of life.
Autumn leaves flutter around my head,
The color popping in the chilly,
The veins stretch out,
Delicate within the leaves.
Bits of sunshine peep through tree branches,
The rays cascading over the glimmering water.
The reflected light forms a pathway,
A trail towards the sun.
Thoughts and ideas twirl,
Melding stories together.
Little pockets of reality spin
Everyone has their own religion,
Something they can look upon.
It could be a motto,
A quote or a book.
There are widely known religions,
With belief filled books.
The words all squirm together
as I write this short poem
They do not appear as colors on a page
but a black blob
They do not represent me
I have come to realize that the most tender thing is not pain, but happiness.
So random, so elusive, an intangible wisp in the void.
I can't control how long it stays, before it