i still
do not know
the poem i've been trying to write
and maybe
that's because
i haven't been
writing one at all
or maybe it's because
the poem i've been trying to write
is not ready for paper
and maybe
i'm the paper
that's not ready for it

Take my hand, empty head
trusted inkwell, drag me out of bed
Write me out of this blank stage
a dance of words, mark up the page
Teach me the steps, glide my pen,
from a closed position to scribe
once again

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

The was stage set
The curtain was drawn

I took long slow steps
At center stage I stopped

The mic before me sat a silhouette
Against the blinding lights

My lips parted to speak
Silence
I spoke the words I know so well
Silence

Was my speech falling on deaf ears?

My voice rose
Silence
I leaned close to the mic
Silence

I screamed at the top of my lungs
Until my throat was raw

I stood in the center of the stage
Silent
No matter what I said
No matter how loud I was
No one was listening

I wanted to tell them
About the sadness drowning me
About the hate burning in my heart
About how hopeless I felt

I sat in the center of the stage
Silent

The stage was empty
The curtains were closed