Confessions of A Writer

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Sometimes, sometimes when I find…  

That my voice is so tiny, so especially paltry.

I can’t help but think how reality seems so bleak.

 

It seems like nothing,

Not even a spark of

Brilliance or imagination,

Could light the world.

 

It just seems so hopeless when every day,

We walk past one another, so much distance,

And oblivion between us all.

 

Our cleverness truly feels pointless when

The machines we build to bring us together,

Only pull our hearts so much further apart.

 

There are times that when I stand on the street,

Rain pitter-pattering everywhere around me,

I feel so empty… and so lost, so dead.

 

It’s then, that moment when I

Cannot find hope, or sense any vestige of humanity

Or even the faint faint beat of my heart,

That I pick up my favorite pen,

And write until the days have become black,

Write until the rivers run dark with my blood,

Until my body collapses, until…

Until all of my thoughts have run mad.

 

I do this so that when the words are written in ink,

They’re more than just mere diction,

They are rhythms burned into memory.

 

It is my purpose to ensure that they are as unforgettable

As a new found star or galaxy and as unforgettable

As the feeling of music beating in your chest.

 

This is because my words are more than life and imagination.

And because I write these poems for the sake of everything.

 

They are the stories of human-kind and of my own past.

 

It is ever so clear to me that

My words are not only my soul,

They are my body, and my inevitably

Fading intelligence.

 

And with some form of luck,

They will fill our small corner of space,

The expanse of our time on Earth.

 

So it would be a privilege to share

These small parts of my heart,

As maybe they will find themselves

Tucked in between

The tired lungs of us all.

And maybe they will become some message

That can bring life to this world.

 

At least I hope so.

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