journey to my smile

there may be a scintilla somewhere,
in the ashes of what was.
there may be, darlin, a taste of hope
for good times with someone:
someone along the way,
but i'm not lookin for him anymore,
'cause i'd rather find my smile.
it's bridget jones on my own,
but i respect it all the same
because i built this life, and i have no shame.
yes, i can tear it down unless
i care to hang around
for some sweet sensation who knows when.

i keep a journal in my purse
and a song in my head,
and occasionally i sleep an entire night in bed;
but i still wake up before the alarm
as it all wells in my head.
i roll over still not playin dead.
you've got to yield to passing traffic;
you've got to know who's in the car.
you have to have some solace
when you can't go that far.

i lost my dictionary, bought a new one,
and now i have two someplace:
old eloquence speaks loudly
while i forget how to spell words.
i want to ask about your day
and tell you a story of my own:
every new man is a starting over,
but my avidness has flown
out an open window on the interstate,
playing zeppelin as loud as i can stand.
sometimes i am angry, and otherwise i am proud:
ultimately i make a life of contentedness
irregardless of the flow of seasons
or the journey of wrinkles to my smile.
it'd still be nice to hear from you
once in a while.