July Twelfth Two-Thousand and Three

I find that I fade out of moments and struggle with words I fear are wrong.

Caught up in upheaval,longing for the ability to keep my eye on the ball.

My dreams disturb me, the players never right, all the wrong characters coming and going, kissing my mouth and I blush, turn around, and close my eyes.

Where is the even-tread?

We stare into mirrors lovely, tired, worn, and console ourselves with pots of colours, with notions, with idealism run rampant born from a magazine.

I see a girl. Reciting words to her mother, "This means family, this means love."

She calls her mother a bitch, stares hard to hurt, her mother withdrawing in pain.

I watch that embrace.

I hate that girl, these girls, those girls with their mothers.

They do not know how good they have it.

We have the smoking gun.

We have so much to lose.

We have run hard to ignore.

We have our projections to share.

My revenue is dropping.

My profit is waning.

My status is under review.

My outlook is revised.

Here is a sprinkling of words that mean nothing to you.

I toe the line, I dive right in but without the optimism he tends to pretend.

You light my fervor

You stop my waning woebegone Sundays on fire.

You tickle my fancy maybe

you speed up my heart, a low-battery jump start and a Pop Pop Pop of my love is jumping out at me.

I would write you a song we all could sing and hope you'd remember me but I don't have it in words, just love.