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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Talking to Myself

Who is this man talking to himself,
laughing, crying, finding comfort
in the sound of his voice?
Perhaps I’ve split into twos and
threes for company.
Does the world have only one voice
for its infinity of multitudes?
When I leave the walls of my life
I go where the children go,
and listen to them speak
to their invisibles,
and learn how never to be
without friends.

How beautiful they let them in
to play and hang out.
They do not mind who is imaginal
and who is not.
They do not lock themselves in closets
where eyes can’t see,
the heart drowns,
dreams pass into the walls
and the imagination asks,
is anyone at home?
Are you playing hide and seek?
or are you angry,
refusing to speak to anyone,
even yourself?

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