"When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am…" –Maya Angelou
I can’t battle the presumption
Carried in my words
That I’m not a channel for destruction
That I’m not better left unheard
I can’t drown out little whispers
Wearing my own voice
When I always chose my battle’s victors
And it was never the right choice.
Well I can disapprove
But what’s that mean to you?
We both will never move
So what then can I do?
I bite my tongue and let your voice
Become the leader in our chorus
Pretending that I have no choice
Knowing that it’s all an ouroboros.
Am I supposed to tell you what I’m thinking
When what I’m thinking is a sin?
Am I supposed to be so very honest
When everything is caving in?
I have seen the price of honesty,
And no commandment not to lie;
Perhaps what I’m supposed to do
Is leave the truth of me to die.
***
It should be noted that I am one who has, on occasion, blurted things out without properly weighing them first; and not as a result of any pressure, or what people told me I was “supposed” to do, but because I personally feel it is right to be truthful. It’s just not always smart.
There are things that I can’t say
And courage just gets in the way
If fear’s what keeps a clever tongue
From losing wit and running on
To the detriment of everyone
Then it’s better that I pay
I want to talk to you
But I don’t know what to say
Sometimes I think things would be better
If I simply went away.
My life is a chain of promises broken
And of the ones that I kept, I gave no sign or token
So as I think of the tree and the silence unbroken
I’m expecting to hear, “Your heart must be oaken…”
There are voices coming from the dark
They’re distorted, but they make their mark
As like the Red Sea, they make the silence part
And the returning flood then drowns my heart.
Mirror, Mirror
I am not one who speaks a word:
I only repeat what I’ve heard,
And tell to those who’ve told me twice
“There’s more to this little thing called life!”
Disappointment
I know well my own perceptions;
Less if they are shared.
And so I keep to my own silence;
Best to be prepared.
I meant to write a letter, but
The letters burned away;
I meant to raise a flag, but
The white ones won the day;
I meant to tell you what I meant, but
The meaning lost its sway;
And though I always meant to ask you,
I always feared you wouldn’t stay.
Too cozy am I with that backspace;
Too quickly do I hit “delete!”
Too long do I stare at a blank page,
And lose ’til there’s nothing to beat.
Too often I long for perfection;
Too often it never is found.
Too cozy am I with that button;
But somehow, I’ll still come around.
Writer In Retrospect 