I plunder for passion
Often revealed in painful fashion
The words of a pensive starving artist
Scribbled on paper ready for harvest.
Pick them with your eyes,
Pasteurize them before it dies,
That persisting pestering feeling
That is all too poorly revealing.
The regretful feeling of passing on
Without presenting my truth upon
The page for you to recognize
The passive feeling I have to compromise.
I dream of presenting my words
I ponder the crowds listening in herds
To the preciously chosen syllables,
The portraits I paint with letters visible.
The ambition soon passes and I’m left
With words left presently on my cleft.
Prowling through my mind for a moment
Only to be persuaded to be put in postponement.
If I don’t take the two seconds to put
Pencil to paper, they are lost at foot
Forgotten and past, for no one to hear
Precariously placed in back out of fear.
Fear of what? Packing another’s heart?
Do I fear poking into another’s art?
No. I preemptively sabotage myself.
I feel safer when pushed to the shelf.
It’s too pretentious.
It’s too portentous.
It’s too over pressured.
It’s too under pressured.
The lies that pop into our heads.
They keep us from potential threads
To be laced together on the pegs
That just might pull one onto their legs.
I want to know what you, the reader, thinks. Consider leaving a comment and I will reply!