Tuesday, September 7, 2010
What have I really done?
Besides write words down on a page.
My words are often sad, depressing.
Meant to be read in midnight moonlight
Or by a midnight heart.
But is that what I want to be known for?
This cold innuendo brought
By an equally cold demeanor?
That this is me?
The pencil gets heavier every day
As I look for something, anything,
To deride this infamy.
This thing others call talent
Is nothing really.
My words are unoriginal.
My analogies are nothing new.
This sickly bland and boring chore
Of overrated stock, in my mind, bores.
Should I be proud of this?
Letting others look at my work
And think of me as disheartened?
Or will they think of me as spiteful?
This heart bleeds more than it receives.
And I write it down, opening new wounds
Everyday, hoping someone reads it…
…and think what?
What do I expect?
…the words are blurring again.
Have I kept on track? I hope.
Because it really is just this:
I am me, and just being me