Be Still With Me

            I don’t know how many words I’ve written yet I seem to want to write a few more. On rainy nights when the snow should be falling, the words feel right when there are none that I really need to say.
            What I want to do is unload and share what I really feel. To not just burn a bridge but nuke the sucker down and laugh on the other side.
            What I want to do is to write for myself once more knowing nobody will ever read these words and nobody really cares. To simply fill the lines of a notebook while a teenager sits and wonders what’s out there and why the stars look so bright in the country night sky. To only see a light from the dim bulb behind me and not from the glow of the Macbook mocking me once more.
            I want the silence instead of the sounds. The interruptions. The voices. The whispers. The guffaws. The sighs. The chuckles. The buzz.
            There are a hundred things I refrain from saying, even when it seems like I’ve said quite enough thank you very much. There are a thousand questions I want to ask, yet I need to just shut up and have faith.
            Oh the faith of a child. I have the faith of a teen, the doubt setting in but not quite grown up just yet.
            The keys and chords of a piano makes sense. The three acts of a movie are easy to follows. The division of chapters in a novel seem quite logical. But stepping out of that into the real world with the real worries and the real wonders only produce real woes. The infinite questions, the infinitesimal answers.  
            Be still and let go of the words.
            Shush and don’t keep asking.
            Just let go of another day and another grip that’s so tight and so tough and so tired.
            Found in words I keep writing. In order to make sense.
            Writing in order to stay quiet.
            Writing to release the worry.
            Writing to let go and let . . .
            Be still with me.  

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