Feb 2020
I call myself a writer
Yet I’ve never made another cry
With the pieces I’ve written.
I’ve seen looks of disgust,
And those of disappointment,
But how does one invoke
The emotions felt in that moment
In the hearts and minds of the literate?
I want to create tears from one’s eyes,
Let the warm water streak a path,
And then send a fearful shiver
Up their chilled spine,
And freeze those beads of water
Into spikes of ice.
Maybe a boiling rage can follow,
And dissipate those trailing tears.
But when all is said and all is done,
Others spike emotion.
I spike none.
Yet I’ve never made another cry
With the pieces I’ve written.
I’ve seen looks of disgust,
And those of disappointment,
But how does one invoke
The emotions felt in that moment
In the hearts and minds of the literate?
I want to create tears from one’s eyes,
Let the warm water streak a path,
And then send a fearful shiver
Up their chilled spine,
And freeze those beads of water
Into spikes of ice.
Maybe a boiling rage can follow,
And dissipate those trailing tears.
But when all is said and all is done,
Others spike emotion.
I spike none.
I realized that I’ve never seemed to have the same effect on others with my writing as others’s work has had an effect on me. Sometimes, there’s more to believing than seeing though, so I’ll hope that somewhere, sometime, I’ll invoke the intended emotion into someone.
