If I had talent, I’d be a musician

I’d play for small crowds or big arenas

I’d be able to command the attention of an audience

I’d charge buckets of money or sometimes not charge a thing at all

If I had guts, I’d be an actress

I’d wear designer dresses to all the award shows

I’d become any character anyone could come up with and

I’d even move to LA or New York

I’d hide from paparazzi and enjoy every second

If I had grace, I’d be a dancer

I’d glide across the floor, making every step look effortless

I’d feel the music through my toes and in my heart

I’d have perfect pirouettes and flawless leaps

I’d be so beautiful

If I was braver I’d be a poet

I can write poems until my fingers bleed

String words together on lined paper

Watch them as they tumble from my pen

Sometimes I even wake up in the middle of the night

Just to write down some lines or stanzas

But no on ever reads them

I keep them tucked away in notebook after notebook

Hidden by school notes or doodles

I leave them all to collect dust

If I was braver, I’d be a poet

Instead I hide my poetry away from prying eyes

Out of fear, I let the pages rot

Until I lose myself in their wilted corners

And I can feel my soul begin to wilt as well

Through the rhymes I choose to ignore

To the poetry I give pieces of myself that no one will ever see

If I was braver, I’d be a poet

-JE

The Things I Wish I Could Be

I wish I could be
one of all instruments;

the singer whose voice
transforms his audience into a choir;

the writer who drops his reader's guard
making a beautiful decimation of every self-made fantasy;

the actor ripe with nominations
whose prestigious Oscar breaks him open before the world;

the photographer who captures moments worth infinite words
while instilling that perfect piercing silence;

the painter of elegant simplicity
or ponderous complexity in every brush and stroke;

the icon strangers seek for reason
looking upon for inspiration;

the husband who gives and comforts
appreciating the angel he's been bestowed;

the father wise and guiding
with enough laughs and smiles to last their whole lives;

the chef and the baker serving only the best
scrumptious entrees and desserts;

the encyclopedia of experience
answering questions obscured from the web;

yet beyond all things
I wish to greet death with a smile
knowing my life, however lived
was worth those years.

His words stitched like rail road ties
through sentiment and simile.
His fingers like slaves to emotions in his brain.

The hum of his instrument,
so rich and so right.
Constructing soundtracks to stories
about what it means to be alive.

Tapping beats from the back of his thigh,
bop-bop, doo-woop.
Turning feeling into vibrations
that shake the walls of the bus station.

What change he got shaking like a tambourine
inside his cardigan pocket.
The gold trim on his six string
shines like a locket under bright orange lights.

I called him the Musician.
his mother called him Bentley.
his father never called,
the streets called him crazy.

His audience passing cars.
Cigarette butts and trashed plastics.
The Musician waxed and waned
as the world kept on passing.