Who knew
Feeling so fine
Could be so frustrating
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.
79 lines, 245 days left.