To be a poet is often a thankless job.
I sit at the feet of the Muse for hours
Playing with words like a child with his favorite toy
And my inspirations fill the pages of countless notebooks
which only sit and gather dust.
And were it all to be revealed
Laid out for all the world to see
It would make no difference.
For all my wit and eloquence is insufficient
To express what I truly long to convey
that which words can never say.
To be a poet is often a thankless job
It does not feed my family
It provides no clothing or shelter.
I devote myself to the craft
but it does not keep out the cold.
I pour out the contents of my heart
My deepest revelations and confessions
I sing the song of my Soul
With all the passion I can summon
to nothing and no one, to Silence.
This morning, outside my door
I saw two little birds, pursuing each other in playful circles
Singing to each other merry springtime songs.
And though their beauty is a small and fleeting thing
in this vastness in which we exist
Although the sky swallowed their songs in silence
Still they fluttered and chirped unconcerned
Each the other’s audience
Content within themselves.
Yes, to be a poet is often a thankless job
But it is a job I’m proud to call my own.
I will write these verses, sad and sweet
I will speak my truth, and sing my songs –
for you, my friend, for you.
For you have heard, if no one else
With you I am content.