I used to say beautiful words about little things they ignored
and it meant so much
every day hurt, and seemed worthy of recording
so I carried a book and a pen about
scribbling what I could never express in the space between my lips and the world
I would ruin relationships born of poetry
with the anthologies I carried from the past on pocket flattened folded filler paper
presented in passing to all the ones who seemed everything for a moment
before something flashier dashed in front of me
or glimmered in gloom just beyond my vision
promised but never realized.
I can't say I suffer now,
but my writing sure does
and this weighs me down
knowing my wife, my child are deserving of adoring poem
my workaday fatigue seems incapable of expressing
the vibrancy and desire, the truth
that I carry in all my thoughts.
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3 comments:
very nice!
You should quit more jobs.
As soon as I win the lottery I will quit in Patrick McGoohan fashion slamming down my resignation and shaking a tea cup on the boss' table before zooming out of a tunnel in a little Aston Martin convertible.
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