White Space Place

Floating, flying...

A space of no resistance, a space of place

A high that doesn't leave, a sadness while heavy is left projecting flutter

A space of freedom

Where I look for rooms without walls, I find myself falling, falling...forever falling

different space, nothing to fall into or out of

white space

without clouds

white space

even the people I look to for support

look back asking the question

who are you

and I must look into my own face

and bravely answer that question

To be non-judgmental about others, is only possible to own myself

and use the courage others see in me to seek inward

for my own possibilities

The falling air is a crossroads,

my feet have not touched ground

I've been flying on my own high

or falling to my own demise

when will I find the words to speak

the ground to stand on

the presence to show who I am

without hiding behind an idea of something that appeals to the people

who seem to be falling too

Is life on a constant repeat,

and where you stand in one place at one particular time

is where the cycle begins to circulate again

this time

with sometimes new players

and usually new pieces

but always with the same repeating fucking instances

a falling, a circle, that just doesn't break

Feelings in a jar

held in my hand

even when the wind pushes me around

and the jar leaves my grip

it falls with me

filling with more emotions

that are made of air, light

like how I continue to fall