Paradox and Little Circles.

Just a bunch of little words.

Just a bunch of little lies.

Thats all that my words amount to.

Which is not the truth,

to anyone but me.

I can write and write,

show my inner works,

splay it across a page,

and pray for your approval.

But to me, thats all that they are.

Just little whining pleas,

all demanding the same thing.

Not to you, of course,

because you can see the truth.

Beauty and Love,

Specks of Color,

Flashes of Brilliance.

The thousands of little wonders,

that live within every human soul.

That bleed upon my page.

Still doesn't change my mind,

doesn't change my world.

it only leaves me wondering,

why do I even bother?

But before the tide comes,

and carries me from my foolishness,

The truth, that unstoppable force,

comes to teach me better.

That my words have meaning,

despite my inability to see it.

The paradox of my life,

is that while I write of meaning,

This poem has none,

But explaining the meaning of my life.