Rambling For Waits

Im writing now to get out emotions.
Im spilling my gut like acid on to the computer screen
hoping brilliance will fall from somewhere.
But as I wait in the wings of life I come to realize,
We are all just wasting time.
We bide our time for something
and when it comes, bide our time for the next thing.
Moments I glimpse a different reality.
One where I am content to just be there
To get out of Dr. Suess's waiting room
and find the spirals that glaze the page with promise.
Im content with the safety of a rhyme
a little quip about how great life is
or woe is me.
But tell me, reader...
Where are the poems about the person inside each writer?
Why does competing for attention still make the priority list?
What has honesty really become?
The truth is no longer pure white because we tainted it.
The wind must have spilled our paints all over the sidewalk
because the picture I see is not graceful
but it is true.
It gives a new perspective to our shows
To our shadows
to our contemplation on things that are not really important.
I say a lot of things
and they shape me
and my writing.
Now, most people wont understand.
I dont ask you too.
I beg you for your chance at a lifetime.
And pray that you dont waste it.