Contrary to Popular Belief
A poet does not always know what to say.
Contrary To Popular Belief
A poet does not always know what to say.
Words do not always line themselves up, diligently one-by-one,
In the chamber of the pen, ready to be basted in ink
And then laid before paper.
Emotions do not always live in the brain,
Gaining momentum as they slide not-so-delicately along synapses,
An electrical message seeking the heart.
Images do not always paint themselves before one’s eyes,
The perfect snapshot of a memory forever to be immortalized
In words waiting to jump off the tip of her slightly curled tongue.
A poet does not always know what to say because
Some moments
Permeate all of the senses until thinking about anything beyond
This moment
Becomes impossible.
Some moments
Leave your brain in a disarray and yet it’s the clearest it has ever been because in
Some moments
Words and time are completely lost to you because,
Some moments can’t be captured by anything other than
The hint of something Other and
The frailty of memory,
Doomed to lose itself at
The edge of the world
Where so many dreams seek refuge and lose themselves there.
Because some moments can’t be forced to fit on a page, in lines,
In stanzas, infinitely dimmed by the journey of recall.
But if a poet did know what to say,
And if a poet knew how to say it,
She would always say something about you
and the moment eyes and hearts connected
from across that dimly lit room.
About the Creator
R.C. Taylor
Part-time daydreamer. Full-time dork.
Follow along for stories about a little bit of everything (i.e. adventure, nostalgia, and other affairs of the heart, and anything else I want to honor and hold space for).
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The woman sat nonplussed, in the Waiting Room. In a sort of daze, looking straight ahead patiently. She had already had three small breakfast's that morning and a nip of sherry, this was not unusual she would typically wait until an hour after she took her anti-depressant and was her morning routine. She was merely following instructions she assured herself, shifted slightly in her seat and feeling a little heart burn thought, maybe she should skip lunch. Dom had said to have the task done this week. She was well used to his methods and desired to get this over and done with soon. She glanced at her watch, smiled weakly at the Receptionist who was there for a moment and then gone.
By Canuck Scriber L.Lachapelle Author6 days ago in Fiction
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