wondering.

I’m trying to be an open book, but I’ll leave blank pages to keep even myself guessing.
It’s where the words turn themselves into oceans and then into waves.
I feel so far from the shore.
I’m floating on all of my timorous thoughts, and boats full of metaphors drop their anchors.
I can feel the tug of the moon, and I hear its sweet whisper to guide.
All I would really rather do is pull down the sheet of stars.
So I pull down the sheet of stars.
I begin to drown in all the brightness; each inconsistency becomes white noise.
I start to climb the stars like stairs.
The moon’s whisper turns into a scream and I’m screaming back.
My screams start pushing me back, and I land on a mattress of metaphors.
I find a comfort in mismatched words.
I remove all of my blank pages
Only to begin filling them up with thirty-thousand mismatched thoughts.
As the boat lightens and the waves begin to calm,
I pull the anchor and begin the watery trail that the moon whispered out.
I’m floating in words.
I’m rowing in reason.