Poetry

That May Be, 1 (122.)

May be that in May I
finally learn to forgive myself,
or maybe
I’ll keep bashing my head against a figurative wall
every time I make a tiny mistake.
May I, can I,
even begin to understand myself?
I put the hearts of those I appreciate
in my pocket,
to be picked out and read
at my leisure,
and this is my seizure of new material
that I may master
and recall at will.
I love to know those I love,
but I,
I am pretty bad at knowing myself.
The creased and folded pages of my feelings
sometimes become strange to me,
and I try and fail to highlight the passages
that make my emotions make sense.
Maybe I
need to take some time
to open myself to others,
to let the letters of my time and history
seep through the skulls and into the brain matter
of my friends,
and take refuge there as a book in a library.
An ever-progressing book am I,
and this May, may I
live a new chapter
of confidence.

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