Anything, Everything
You can’t force it,
It’s like pulling teeth.
But the teeth are words to render the rhyme complete.
Try as you might, try as I may,
A line will come, it will find its own way
The perfect couplet will occur in its time
But until then, wait
Because tugged inspiration is not worth a dime.
If you were a book,
What kind would you be?
Would you be a best seller,
Would I come by you for free?
Would I read you cover to cover,
Or peruse you casually in a park?
Would I still be reading you beneath the lamp light after dark?
Are you a comedy, drama,
Or something in between?
Would your imagery stay with me,
Or flicker away like a dream?
Do you use your own perspective,
Or a friend’s?
Is your font friendly?
How does it end?
If I were to see you in a store,
Waiting on the shelf,
Would I walk by?
Or would I pry
Your pages open hungrily for more,
Your epilogue offering clarity,
The story becoming clear,
Would I fear
What you have to say?
I will not die for my art
Does that offend?
Does my noncommittal attitude bend
You out of shape?
Are your words richer than mine,
Is your mind more inclined
To weep at the illustrious beauty of rhyme
Am I pretentious?
You proclaim me to be
You see
A soul trying to lift herself higher,
And you sneer
At the tears in her sleepless eyes
The pain in her sighs
As she paints to realise
The dreams behind those haunted eyes
Alive and absent of sense
Condensed with colours for you to see
Me
I am the artist you seek
Words paint and a canvas of mind
Designed with no intention
to offend or praise
But you raise your voice for us all to hear
The fear plain
As your insults rain on my ears
And you proclaim that the artist must die for her art.
You cry, there is no blood in her ink.
But I think,
Art must breathe life.
If strife is your brush,
The lush green around will fail to catch your attention.
Are you here for me
Or for you?
Are we destined to dance
In this imitation of romance?
Why do I write on your behalf?
Why do I give your voice tone,
Is it sympathy?
Is it longing?
Are you the only love I knew
That would hurt as it grew
Into something you would not reflect
As months and years passed
And yet
You come back.
A word on a screen,
An innocuous greet
In the seat
Of my mind I ready for this whirlwind,
It will only end in tears
Your fickle mind, soaked in the remains of expired memories
Curled ashes on the floor
I wish I didn’t love you anymore
I wish you would stay
I want you to stay
If only for a second, an hour, a day
Would be too much
You are my story book.
I think from afar
And there you are,
So close.
We are meant to be
I know this I tell myself this
I feel it yes it must be true
Late night texts
It must be me you want
A love grown from old seeds
Dust in the ground
Why are we keeping it alive?
I am nothing.
Nothing is I
Doesn’t make sense, does it?
To occupy a space
To make a lasting impression beneath your feet
And say those words as breeze bends around you
Everything is something
Nothing is something with everything in it
If I am nothing,
What does that say?
I am still a daughter
A niece
A granddaughter
A friend
A colleague
A lover
A memory.
Or is that too vague?
Am I too much in other eyes?
I don’t sell much, but I’m a painter
Cats may make more pleasant sounds, but I’m a singer
A writer I am and the words are my own
Rough as they are they come from me alone
Music comes in a wordless tune,
But it is mine.
And that is everything.
Paint a Mental Picture 