Somewhere Between

Am I addicted to the noise,

Or the experience of more?

Am I addicted to the sounds that it makes when I’m heard?

I don’t know.

What is this device in my hands,

Or these red dots on my computer,

That show me that someone is interested in what I’m saying?

It pushes me down the road for more,

And keeps sending me back even though I don’t know what it’s for.

Am I addicted?

Am I addicted to the sensations in my mind,

That jump off whenever I say everything isn’t fine?

Am I addicted to the more,

Or is it this writing process that’s driving me mad?

Am I mad for more,

Or what’s it all for?

I keep thinking about how Bob Dylan would hang out in the bars at night time,

And that’s where he would do his writing—

He would listen and learn and see the others sharing and living their lives and the soul and excitement all came from that place.

He wrote like this and Bobby Margo and Cowbell Hairy all sat down on Sunday to square dance and bring the baby’s belly back to life,

Because what is it if we don’t think twice and we only think once and there’s this word on my tongue that used to be there and now it isn’t anymore but it’s just sitting there, and am I spread too thin?

What is my mission?

What am I enrolling people into?

What is the reason for these words on paper and sometimes, I just don’t know.

I don’t know what it’s all for, not always, not ever really.

I research and I learn and I go for walks and I listen, but what do I come back with but an empty page..

It all circles back to something that’s not there anymore.

And all the words go back and forth between these apps and someday I will want to bring them all together so I can read them and go over them,

But the words of yesterday slip away and the words of tomorrow remain.

And here I am,

Somewhere in between all the things.