I’ve come to think I’ve lost my creative edge. I used to spend hours eloquently stating what I was feeling in verse and on lazy days in run on sentences and sometimes if I was lucky, in rhyme. But now I find myself lacking the words to say, and I fear it’s possible I am lacking the feelings I once felt, or possibly lacking the understanding or realization that I feel them if I still do. Sometimes the only time I remember feeling is when I’m sad or angry. I take happiness for granted because it’s become a normality. Sometimes I forget to be sad or angry when I need to because I wouldn’t want to disturb the happiness within or around me. But I miss noticing when and what I feel. I am more in touch with myself when I remember to notice, and more so when I put those feelings into words. When I can do that, I begin to fully understand the inner me that lives in the depths somewhere. It’s enlightening and dare I say even spiritual.
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Because you are lonely too. And you know what it’s like to spend hours waiting for a notification that someone values what you say. Verification that some of the people in your box of friends still walk through your forests waiting for trees to fall.
Because you didn’t understand the metaphor and so it must be deeper than your reach. Because people who appreciate poets are more approachable than poets themselves, and are far less likely to spend Saturday nights alone.
Because the words look like family. Because when they pass your teeth it’s as if your heart joins in chorus, and their syntax wraps cozy round your shivering bones. Because their eyes look like yours and because they know how to cut you, but don’t.
Because you are in love. And if a raccoon tore a hole in your garbage bag, ate last week’s green chocolate cake, and returned it to your porch shortly after, you would see poetry in it. Because poems look like pies through rose colored glasses and it’s really hard to find a bad pie.
Because you hate this poem but won’t tell me. Because our relationship hangs on your approval, and you know I’ll expect you to make me feel ok about writing this. To tell me people don’t appreciate real art anymore, and that’s why no one else has responded.
Because it doesn’t rhyme, and there are numbers separating the stanzas that force you to read the last line slowly. Because it references Facebook and so it’s something you can relate to. Because it’s cliché enough to be memorable, and a little out of the box but still inside mine.
Because you know why I wrote it. And you know that seeing your name beside it will be all the consolation I need. Because their is loyalty in a signature that even our forefathers acknowledged, and because it’s the best way you know to take sides.
Because the last thing you liked was McDonald’s French Fries and you’re looking to diversify your portfolio.
Because you want me to remember you. Because we haven’t spoken in years outside of birthday wishes and silence is a hard habit to break. Because neither of us is sure who the apology belongs to but because you’re willing to take a step on faith.
Because you know the impact an echo can have on its target. Because we all scream from stages built with fearful hands. We carry microphones in our pockets on nights too quiet to sleep and purge our lungs of their angst. Because this cave can not be empty. Because words are not like family unless they are spoken by someone we love. Because some nights all I need is a name to believe I still have my own.
—Steven Hutchison (via tinyhomemaker)