The words under my bed
Oh my plight! Before finally DOING something about it.
How many hours - days…years? - of my life have I spent lamenting that my words ought to be inscribed on someone - anyone! - other than the pages of my journal.
I still have those days. A million ideas live inside me, and perhaps I’ve surrendered to the fact that they can’t all come to fruition. But boy am I glad that this poem no longer (fully) resonates with where I am.
This was my first open mic - what a thrill!
Silent Story
A Silent Story
does it even count?
A fallen tree in the forest
does not make a sound.
A play without an audience
A film with no fans
A manuscript unpublished
A song…with no dance.
Perfume never smelled
Vintage wine unconsumed
(well, that would never happen
-then we’d really be doomed)
But a pastry gone stale?
A curtain never called
Painted lips left unkissed
Sales missed at the mall
“Oh, what a shame”
How I hate. That. Thought.
How helpless is pity
when we ache for what’s not?
Products and prose
unwrapped and unseen
Wasted and forgotten -
so what’s it all mean?
A million words in my journal
for my eyes alone
They count for nothing
if they can never be known
You think it’s art?
Well I’ve got bad news:
There’s no point in creating
if the outcome’s unused.
Stop, that’s not true!
I tell the voice in my brain
Because if that were the case
none of us could be sane
I loathe myself
for crafting stories still hidden
But…isn’t that better
than if they had never been written?
Art should be seen
and I want my words to be felt
But we can’t share with others
what we won’t do for ourselves.
My words may be forgotten
As will be my fears
because the very act of creation
gives life to our years
Whether clouded in darkness
or shining bright in the sun
Make it anyway, darling!
It’s all in good fun
It’s not about praise
and it’s not about show
What it is about?
I really…don’t know
But I know that I cannot
just sit here and yearn
Marching in my place
as I watch the world turn
So I am moving my feet
for whatever it’s worth
and if not a single life is affected…
there is still purpose to my birth
I may not recall this piece
even five days from now
But this ephemeral display of my diary
matters somehow.
POWER MOVE: Create something today, just for the heck of it.