writing

can I get you to hear what I do?

the melody, the song

that’s running through 

as the syllables are strung along?

praise me, but

my work is not my own.

the style stolen, the rhythm robbed

from the words of writers undisclosed.

a thief of love stories and realizations

because all I have ever known

is “Love Story” and the radio stations.

“to lyrics do not listen when writing”--

music is confounding, distracting, tormenting.

but how can secrets of life and humanity

be unlocked when my only reality

is that of stereo beats and lyrical melodies?

not a person of experience, 

but of cadences and chords.

my life is not my own,

but of other composers

who understood what I wanted to say

before I had the words.