stacks of brightly colored fabric stacked high

Up and Quiet

I guess I’m wondering
if it’s ok
that my soul doesn’t have much to say.

Not that there’s serenity
or “Nirvana”
things are still up in the air.

Thoughts won’t catch
folding nicely
into crafted stories
middle beginning end.

Most sentences end with an ellipsis nowadays…

How can everything be connected  
and am supposed to understand
the ramifications of every action
and still be creating?

I have lost my perspective.

I don’t have anything to say
because I’m angry
and angry I’m outraged
and sad that I’m angry
and outraged
and sad.

It’s easy to hide
in the shadows of skipped stitches
in stories woven
by people who are not me.  

Shhhh they say.
Say nothing
It’s your life purpose
Hide behind cloth woven.

I turn away, towards something else.
It’s easier…