There are somethings that I shouldn’t know;
things that bring no nourishment,
no ‘chicken soup for the soul’.
Things that come with age and with age, also go.
They are the roundness in my life, the square corners too,
They’re fading with the twilight and are now long overdue.
Often times, I say, “Yes, I’ll take care of it my dear”
yet three months later, without explanation, it again reappears.
That bill that wasn’t paid
bounces back because it was six days late.
The interest upon interest grows to be,
an accrued amount of dollars owed by me.
I don’t always know what the something is,
it’s gentle with a feathery kiss,
it’s just there, it weaves itself in and out
it whispers and never shouts.
I never see it coming, not an inkling, not a three,
when the somethings rear their ugly heads, when they find me.
I see it with a new clarity, my somethings they are rife,
they are the ingredients that mix and make up my life.
Somethings can be something, or they can be nothing at all.
We can soar, as they spread our wings,
or let them be our greatest shortfall.
The trouble with somethings is they can sometime be a ruse
we must really pay attention that it’s us, they’re talking too.
It seems to have garnished your attention,
it could be something that got away from us,
something in disguise, something abnormal, all our alibis.
I think we need to chat.
If we want to get back to where we started
we need to commit ourselves to that.
There are just somethings yes, somethings,
that are a fragrant offering,
the jewels in our diadem.
They’re there if we stretch to find them,
on the earth, on the seas, in the skies;
the cumulation of all I am,
all the somethings I comprise.
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