meant for sharing

meant for sharing 

It’s a bastardization 

of the English language 

to be called selfish

when the root of what you do

is to spend your time 

thinking of someone else,

a memory, a time, a place 

outside of yourself,

experiences too unique 

to keep to themselves,

so you share in the hopes 

of helping someone else.

A fictionalized version of oneself,

a hometown with a novelized name,

welcoming small town mornings,

the happy and the mundane,

afternoons with a view,

a river sunset 

on which the light 

reflects back the best of you,

nights alone are a two-way street, 

like predictive text facilitating 

what I should say next,

but their suggestions

are mowing the grass 

with an edging machine,

words with no feeling

cut around the corners

of what meaning could conceive,

are you going to see

the same thing as me?

Or is it the poet’s job 

to reinforce belief

in an era where possibility 

seems just about as practical 

as walking down the road 

on 6 foot stilts 

so that you can see beyond 

the physical limits of your reach?

That goes back to the question of technology,

does this social media 

make you feel at home 

or is the connection one 

that leaves you alone on your phone?

I’ve got this cat 

that likes to stare out the window,

he’ll walk out to the balcony 

and look down on the ground below,

only God knows what tomorrow holds,

but it’s as if He would rather keep us writing

instead of reading into what it could be,

and I’m left here interpreting,

the past, present, and future 

is a man in need of searching,

and without a doubt 

what I find isn’t just a treasure for me,

but it’s a life 

meant for sharing.