Here it goes, I think to myself,
I’m going to put me out there
Not unlike a squirrel in the road
Timing sure is important
But importance is not without the necessity
I wish my thoughts
and hands, fingers, could move like lightning
pushing out work after work
like pages in a print factory
hurry up and reach the other side
before hit with doubt
these pages burn, and squirrels are crushed
Reaching in to my bag of tricks
I wonder what the audience will think of my show
Will they know, or at least
The amount of effort and tears, smiles and fears
That went into what they watch?
Will it matter once it’s in their hands
Beginning the process of tattered pages
Reading the accounts of untold rages?
I am no doubt fearful of their response
Even though regardless I will still go on
Or will it transform me if they doubt me
Push me aside and reroute me
Setting off reviews that spark the rest
Leaving all my work to be bruised and battered at best
When fame is layed upon the almost unsuspecting
A life, or many is changed forever
So it would seem then too
For the opposite reaction.
I’m suddenly bound up by this craft
Buried into it
Then sprouting out, burgeoning
I’m having moments
Probably like a menopausal woman
Where my heart skips curiously
Like a child in the park
Thinking what emotions and provocations
My work could spark.
Previewing the words of
Potential critics I am merely and mostly
Even more excited.
It is so that they may love me
They may be moved
And catch themselves thinking of me.
But then again maybe it is too arrogant
Of me to think they’ll think so much
Of me, in their own time.
That like me, they’ll spend their previous
Cents and senses to look into the times
I spend lamenting and unrelenting
To let my feelings and thoughts
Fall by the way side.
Reading them and into their lives
It is the writer, especially the poet
Who crucifies him or herself
Putting it all out there like
A nude model in the middle of winter
Perhaps we all put on those extra pounds
Like natural layers.
Maybe they’ll see more through my words
Than I want or invite them to.
Maybe I give too much away
Or then again, maybe not enough.
I’m reading of them and seeing who I like
And who I think I’m like
But would rather be more
Crafted and inspiring
Not that I reject them, after all
I am the one who is aspiring,
Their words are in my hands
Printed and pronouncing themselves
Into my own thoughts.
Will they sit with me even when I leave
The pages closed?
I am happy to see what I might
Or even could call
Companions in this world
Teachers or authors or at least
More than just me out here and alone.
I am further excited to be amongst them
On those shelves and tucked into
The open in not so
Wide-open busy warehouses
Where seekers will find me
Where unsuspecting, possible fans
Will run across me, perhaps
Find me compelling
Like an image trapped
Inside the cage behind your eyes
It is myself now
Who will cast my words out there
My works, like letters in alphabet soup
They will find a life all their own
Like children leaving the nest
But still I will be their landing,
Their real life beginning
And in their hearts
I find myself solidified inside this world
Where we have not yet met.
– eLPy Next Poem