I am a wanderer. Am I?
Lately I just sit a lot.
I don't think as much as you'd think I think.
I guess thinking gets painful after a while.
We know what to expect. For the most part.
We know, again for the most part, what's coming.
It's not so much like a movie you've seen a thousand times.
It's more like a pretty good suspense show,
where you've figured out who the killer is,
even though it's well written and hidden.
Now we're just waiting to see how they choose to tell us.
It's like knowing that the sculptor has created his version of H.R. Pufnstuf
but kept it under a sheet so you know what's there,
just not what his interpretation looks like.
We're waiting for the sheet to be pulled back for the reveal.
I'm more curious than afraid.
More angry than sad.
More disheartened than tired.
This isn't really a poem. At least not a good one.
It's more like a short conversation with myself.
No it's a poem.
No it's not.