Cynthia (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} cynthia_lynthia) wrote,@ 2005-02-11 10:54:00 |
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A Poem
I don't write poetry.
Oh, I used to –
Page upon page
Verse after verse
The song of my heart
—solidified—
put onto paper.
But somewhere
between the beginning and the middle
I looked up and saw how much more
—brilliant—
the heart songs of others were
giving life to a paper
(and to a soul).
And so I don't write poetry.
But sometimes
when I forget a little bit of what I've
—decided—
I do it anyway
let the music flow
out of me, into it
molten gold that you can neither see nor hear—
only feel.
And then . . .
Then for a moment I am
—peaceful—
. . . at least until I find a book of Sara Teasdale.
I don't write poetry.
Oh, I used to –
Page upon page
Verse after verse
The song of my heart
—solidified—
put onto paper.
But somewhere
between the beginning and the middle
I looked up and saw how much more
—brilliant—
the heart songs of others were
giving life to a paper
(and to a soul).
And so I don't write poetry.
But sometimes
when I forget a little bit of what I've
—decided—
I do it anyway
let the music flow
out of me, into it
molten gold that you can neither see nor hear—
only feel.
And then . . .
Then for a moment I am
—peaceful—
. . . at least until I find a book of Sara Teasdale.
