The answers are far less certain
than even last week, to all those
perennial questions or solutions
you might seek.
What do you believe, or
what do you believe in?
Come Monday, you have fewer
questions than you had last week.
For a while there are less doubts
in what you believe.
Whom do you believe in,
and who believes in you?
11/18/2024 j.g.l.
We want to know what
we don’t know, or hadn’t thought of,
or forgot.
What mattered then,
or what mattered when, shifts over time.
We notice.
Perception is what you don’t see.
Deception is what know.
You see it differently through your aloneness.
The truth behind a lie,
you question how and why.
It made sense.
Anticipation keeps us waiting
for only so long. Will it matter
if you felt it never did?
© 2021 j.g. lewis
Slow down: even with the ideas that come to quicky. Take the time to acknowledge the feelings that arrive, as they arrive.
Write it down. How else will you remember what you were thinking?
Print neatly. You hardly understand the thoughts at the time, why make it more difficult to comprehend weeks or years from now?
Follow your own logic; only you need to truly make sense of what is happening, or all that has happened.
Pay attention to the lessons of the past. Be mindful that not all are worth repeating.
Clarity. Make corrections as you go. Flaws become more difficult to correct the longer you live with them.
11/14/2024 j.g.l.
I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
A solid pull
from yet another cigarette.
A means of suspending time,
a pause, a break, a delay;
her way of holding back a
moment. She can only wonder.
Silence is a cancer.
A night filled with
too many expectations,
and questions. The wistful
lambency of all the answers
failed to fully satisfy.
Exhale, forcefully,
through the nose, tapping the
cigarette into a laden ashtray
truly not knowing
what will next come out
of her mouth. Why.
The reasoning tenuous,
at best, but
rationalizations are
tricky things. Here,
the morning after, she remains
certain, but unsure.
Smoke fills
the commodious hotel room.
So many anonymous people
have had sweaty sex here before.
They’ve been here before,
years ago, when questions
were different, or never arose.
Passion tends to overlook
the obvious, all too often.
I have to leave, she says,
eyes cast downward.
There is no other way.
04/20/17 © j.g. lewis
I’m like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.