Joan Didion

Her work had been described,
By one who knew her well,
As explorations into her feelings,
Before she could e'en tell,

A journalist first, in time if not mind,
She looked in from outside,
Searching for those gold moments that revealed,
What humanity would never confide,

Including the grief she could not ignore,
As her loved ones both left,
Until she wrote through the pain that she felt,
She would not be bereft,

Though now she's not,
Others must be for her,
Joan Didion, I will soon read your works,
To understand life's meaning through your words.

Change

Change isn't always good,
But it is always good,
Without it there could be nothing without,
That you could ever could,

Suspension would not even be a word,
Nor would any other,
No space to fill with who you think you are,
Or other people pushing back either,

There would be nothing, are you hearing this?
Maybe that's what you want,
You're so tired of fights for your existence,
You're ready to give up.

But what of me?
Don't care if I'm around>
It has not been easy for me either,
But I still have hope that I will be found.

While I'm Thinking About It

What I should be doing,
Is expressing myself,
Not just in traditional mediums,
Like through books on a shelf,

But in every movement that I accomplish,
From eating to walking,
So that truth is so much a part of me,
No thought is required when I am talking,

It's at once clear to whoever listens,
That what they hear is brave,
For who's not feared for the life of their soul,
Faced with leaving the cave?

Certainly me,
Each time I think to think,
I can't get past the desire to be me,
'stead, I meekly hold myself at the brink.

Bye Bye Happiness

If you think you're happy,
Just wait a few minutes,
Let your mind traverse your circumstances,
Your mood changed didn't it?

It is nothing to do with who you are,
You can do anything,
A world made up of only you would thrive,
At least that is what you should be thinking,

If not, then you may have gone down too far,
To layers not needed,
Where who you are's too bound with the outside,
You've dug, then repeated,

The same mistakes,
Made by all the depressed,
Hitching your happiness to circumstance,
Then releasing claim to your uniqueness.

The Nature of Magic

What really is magic,
Beyond staged illusion,
The kind that leaves you wondering, at times,
If minds can cause motion?

When you wish for something and it comes true,
You have a choice to make,
Was that an event of coincidence,
Or did your thoughts invade and infiltrate?

Or put another way, find a new way,
To understand this life,
Not like we were thrust in as aliens,
As if we are a knife,

But like a rose,
If they're one with nature,
Like everything's made of the same preons,
Connected as death and taxes are sure.

What Will We Be?

Can one see farther than,
The end of a project,
When what you wanted to create is done?
How few of us project,

To the days when what we made's long forgot,
But what was made remains,
Not of nature but embedded in it,
An epoch soon just an underground vein,

Defined as a thin layer of plastics,
Our name, Anthropocene,
A glitch in the stitch of this planet's time,
Like a shameful bad scene,

We all have those,
I can think of a few.
Will we live to bemoan or die before,
We can survive having thought life anew?

Get It Done

Why is it when I'm free,
All those things I must do,
Become chores I want to never complete,
Though they will feel good to?

The question doesn't need to be answered,
We all know how this goes,
Fear of completing something that will help,
Why so many don't want success, who knows?

Oops, another question, as if you'd know,
I should get back to things,
But first I will finish asking questions
What could I be thinking?!

What did I say?
Something distracted me,
Whatever I had to do I forgot,
Suddenly, I feel refreshingly free.