Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Sing the Silence

If you can’t be a poet, be the poem. – David Carradine

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance. – Carl Sandburg

I wrote a poem:

                 Sing the Silence

Pieces of me, are lost in the pieces of words. I don't want to stop. I want to make mistakes and not stop anyways.

Where am I in all of this? I didn't play the piano for you. You heard me anyways. my song.

These songs that we are, never to sing, only to be said instead of sung.

I am very short, very short when i speak to nobody. I say small things to the air. the air never defines me, it only echoes me lives with me, in me.

do you believe in ghosts? in gods? they might be the same thing

i love, i love, i love the winter in your eyes. the snowflakes I can see in your soul. it's snowing inside you but you are burning up

Where do we go from here? i never wanted to climb a mountain, you are my mountain, you are my words piled up

I want to see the sunrise, i hate when it rises and i'm not there. i'm there but not there

in the space where i need to be

punctuation is a joke
it's not even funny

there are pauses that need to be acknowledged, I suppose. 

there are flights i've missed and commas I never printed
you say you missed me
i thought we were simple people
we don't talk about that kind of stuff

Which one of us is me?
I thought I was you for a long time...
What is time?

this glamorous bitch knows nothing
of the present moment
she keeps singing about the past

what is she saying?
do you hear her?

what would you say 
if i talked out of turn
would you walk away from me

mr. would you stand next to me
and hear my song?

there's nothing to hear, you say...



Image curtesy of Simon Howden at

No comments:

Post a Comment