Gum Wrappers and Lunch Bags

Inevitably,

they ask me

what I do for a living.

I ponder the odd, in-between jobs,

here and there,

this and that barely

holding everything together

like strings of floss.

"Actually,

I'm a writer,"

I'd sigh

in the relief

of finally understanding

my greater purpose.

They are eager to hear

about best sellers,

screenplays,

big success.

"Nothing like that,

very up-incoming,"

I jest.

They aren't interested

in poetry dense with layers

of sentiment

or old stories

just beginning to surface

on paper.

Instead,

they ask me

about marketing strategies,

book tours,

huge opportunities.

Suddenly, they are more concerned

with selling my writing

than the act of it.

I don't tell them

about the years

I scribbled impassioned

notes on gum wrappers

and lunch bags because

I had abandoned

journals for the sake of

levity.

I don't divulge how heavy

it feels to carry all these

words with me

or try to enlighten

about fragments

of myself buried in fiction.

Eventually,

they ask me

what I do for money.

"Oh, this and that,

here and there,

whatever

holds me over,"

I sigh,

clutching a mostly

empty journal to my

heart

like the little girl

who hadn't yet been told

that practicality was more

important than

her stories.

***

Hello, wanderer.

Please let this poem be a warm hug if you are feeling frustrated with pursuing your passions. Often big wins are the easiest to notice. Let's give space for the little ones too.

xoxo, for now

-your friend, lost in thought

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