Poem: All There

All There

You are done writing in your journal.
An old-time path to discovery
in the midst of apps and algorithms.
Pen slowly to paper. Pauses.
The scratch of handwriting.
The scratch as you cross out
the places that are not quite right,
not quite true. Recording your mistakes
as much as the things that are faithful.
It’s all there. The battle to name your feelings,
to put them in the correct slot
and organize your life around them
with at least a semblance of control.
It’s all there. The cues. The signs. The lies.
It is not a recording, your journaling,
it is a discovery. An insistence to do,
or at least capture what the rest of the world
simply does. An assistance to push past
the broken pieces. To name them
and to name the path around them.
It’s all there. The quiet moments of perfection.
the hopes, and even at your age,
there are many. All there. All of them.
The ghosts. They are there too.
Trying to make sense of a world
that speaks a different language
with pen and paper and time.