Off Hand

you noticed three wide open faces in the last two days
such unguarded happiness
like children, nearly angels.

it swelled your heart,
made you feel protective
and look away at the same time.

they were beautiful
but it hurt somehow
like beauty often does.

you're not really a cynic
just beat up sometimes
with not a lot of juice in reserve
and no end in sight.

everyone gets lost.

you envy artists
and how you imagine their lives are lived
while you live yours inside a
different silo.

you think reading is cheating
and that everything must come directly
from your own well.

you think of all the time wasted
self-limiting, imposing, negating,
and you're a little scared
honestly.