Writing has been therapy A mode of self expression On my worst days I can let out all the sadness And all the rage Put them into words Fill another page But what do I do when everything’s fine?
As artists we strain to capture things Feelings or descriptions of events Meticulously obsessing over every detail So that when you hear that soaring melody After the dissonance resolves And your eye catches the little details Painted in so carefully And the words like bricks Build up the image of our mind’s musings You get it. It resonates with you. But what is there to do When nothing is breaking my heart Nothing is making me happy or angry My mind is devoid of curious thoughts Only filled with contentment
I can’t help feeling I took those painful nights for granted Where I cried myself to sleep Just wishing something would change Because now I’ve gotten so efficient At describing the pain That I’m lost on a day that’s just fine
Seven-thousand words, And a shining moon in the sky, Waxing and waning the nights away, The well has been drained for so long Every poem so raw, Unfinished, sparking at the first idea That lets the stem spread From the seed.
Today is unusually mundane, And nothing seems to find a place on the page, Since nothing seems short of fine. Who knew that the night could be so peaceful All alone riding these waves, With no cloud blocking the stars in the sky Who knew that the weight carried Would pile on Until floating here in the middle Didn’t feel so difficult all of a sudden,
The pages turn, The days pass on, And the weight slowly gets lifted off, But where do you turn when there’s nothing left To be said? Where do you turn, When the wind doesn’t set the sail In any particular direction, And the sun sets a moderate temp?
Trouble and turmoil Makes the story more engaging, But the truth is in the calm waves And the cloudless sky, Giving a sense of peace Not found so often; I’m not sure if it’s worth a lie To engage more to read, When I’d rather think about The gentle breeze And clear sky.