I scattered dried flowers every direction today,
this was only the ending.
I started out just as I ended
And the middle was not much different.
Even now, nothing comes easily.
My pen writes unevenly on an even page.

"my world is a mess in perfection,"
I write as ink splatter violently
from my pen.
I must pause to wipe it from
The pristine walls.
It is one flake whirling uncontrollably
In the snowstorm of my day.

"My world is perfection in a mess,"
I ponder with eagle's eyes.
I am innocent and pure
in a world of corruption.

"My world is a mess in a mess,"
I state, looking at my ink-stained thumb,
Thinking that all of us
have our problems
Mine are no bigger, no smaller,
Only magnified today
And only
Today.

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