Thoughts On A Poem

As often as I make the claim to be a writer, I have never had my work published unless you happen to mean a school newspaper - in which case I've been published several times. I've been on television, I've been quoted in newspapers, but I have never had any of my work published. Once, I got an honorable mention for some writing competition I entered in my sixth or seventh grade but still - you get the point.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

But I love writing. It's what I do. Every day I write something that someone goes 'I never would have phrased it that way but that's brilliant' or 'Very nicely put, you outdid yourself' to which I respond, no I'm a writer. One of the things I want to do before I die is to make that statement a reality. Be published for a short story or a novel, perhaps even a book of poetry. I fill journals and pages upon pages of loose leaf paper, surely some idea in there is just waiting to be taken out of the bag and nourished. Watered with more ideas, warmed by careful dedication until it grows to be a sapling to be pruned with careful slashes of the razor edged tongues of family, friends and editors. If it makes it past all of the pulling, prodding, tying back of limbs and complete severances of branches, then it should be able to grow up into a strong tree. If not, well... start the process all over again.

Composition books, covers covered in permanent marker or stickers, a dazzling array of carefully clipped pictures pasted on from magazines of the time, line a chest that I have in my room, locked carefully away so that no prying eyes can see. I've burned pages, rewritten old poems and songs and stories, expanded and contracted in the realm of my ability but sometimes I just become burned out. Bummed out. So I took almost a month, maybe it was more, to stop writing. Because I couldn't stand the thought of it being a chore. Because my life was in a metamorphosis that I could watch and enjoy or let completely pass me by. A part of me is glad I became this butterfly and another part of me feels as if my wings didn't develop.

Autumn leaves scattered 'cross the sidewalk
Like broken dreams scattered on the floor.
Dry leaves, sapped of life and color,
Crushed beneath the disapproving looks.

A broken time piece sits upon the mantle
A voice so silenced, it echoes down the hall.
Gears lay in the stillness of forever
No longer does the heart beat anymore.

I'll work on this, get back to you... Please don't steal.