I have to
look back at my writing every
now and then,
just to test
and, goddess help me,
Did I write some sort of truth?
Was it at least sort of creative?
Is it easy for others to read?
Will they get what my random ramblings say?
’cause sometimes, shit,
even I have trouble decoding myself.
So I pick old verses up off the shelf
and read ’em as though
I found ’em in a book in a store, somewhere,
in a future or alternate reality
that sees me published.
Damn it, I swear that’s not the end-goal,
but there’s a small part of me
that thrills at the imaginary feel
of a whole book that’s filled
with my letters,
god I hope they help someone get better.
So I think of what that might be like,
and I set my sights on that azure sky
while I daydream-whistle
on my merry way,
thinking in my thought bubble
“This might be the day
that leads to the day
when I stop at a store on the way to a cafe
and spy my name on a spine standing straight on a shelf,
and I gaze in wonder,
and pass my wet brown eyes over
the little price on the back
and say ‘How whack, people pay to read my shit.’
This might be the day …”
As you can plainly read,
I have delusions of mild success.
When really, that’s not the point.
I want to reach people.
With the medium I love.
All the words in a row, sharing something,
The words help me, I hope they can help
you, and others,
I just want them to cover you like a blanket
when you’re cold,
for them to feel comfy and nice
in a world that’s full of strife and vice.
Let’s sit together, and swap stories –
when did you first realize you enjoy poetry?
With which character did you first fall in love?
Whose voice led you to rhythm and music?
Which songs guided you to wordplay?
I’ll crack open my spine
if you crack open yours.
That May Be, 24 (145.)
I have to