Inspiration is a Breath of Fresh Air

Every night.
There is a stillness to these
Itís cloudy to be thinking so clearly.
This way. or that.
About my id, ego, and super something.

This world seems knew to me.
Iím using my voice for the very first time.
And words, how they fall on the tip of my tongue.
I want to usher them,
To compose them.

Itís not that I wasted the last years,
Because Iím still doubtful they existed.
Itís impossible to think I had abandoned myself.
And for so long.

You wouldnít call this rediscovery.
Itís not about new beginnings,
Itís just about breathing.

Every night.
Itís unclear.
How it works.
I can draw outside the lines again.
I can get lost again.
Iíve never made so much progress going backwards.

I think about the meaning of inspiration.
A breath of air.
Stimulation of the mind or emotions.
Itís beautiful,
How I can coexist as both of those things.

Somewhere along the way,
I encountered myself.
My fingers grasp as if theyíve never touched.
I speak as if Iíve never been heard.
My green irises find the blues and browns of others
Blinking back through me.
As my self.

Poetry by Shawn Monahan
Read 510 times
Written on 2008-08-28 at 06:37

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