"When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am…" –Maya Angelou
I can tell what you really feel:
The only pride I’ll really claim
Is in the capacity to hear a joke,
And hear a heartbeat in its punchline.
Oh, I know it does no good
Listening to languages unknown:
My translation tells me one thing;
To them, it’s overblown.
But I can feel the deeper meaning,
And I can’t unfeel the pain;
How can I be glad of my existence,
When I know that you don’t feel the same?
My tears are shaped like words
When everything goes well
Only on my pages
Is where the thing with feathers fell
No one ever notices
And there’s none I’ll ever tell
That I was ever feeling this
When everything goes well
You’d think we’d get on better,
Sharing viewpoints and our youth;
But our words are lost to law’s cruel letter
As you lie, and I don’t tell the truth.
It was your birthday today
And I merely closed my eyes
Everything I ought to say
Dismissed with “nevermind”
All the games we used to play
Exchanged for worries and white lies
And if we were friends again someday
I don’t know what you’d find.
I am friendless because
I died and no one ever knew;
Every day something of darkness
Inside my spirit grew.
But nobody seemed to notice;
No, not even you.
And I realized that I was alone
And might as well suffer that way too.
I thought they went without saying,
All those kind things I never said;
While all the while you’d be praying
That my kindness might not be dead.
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.
My thoughts are my letters,
That never get sent, sir;
My thoughts are my letters
That never get done.
I mean to write letters —
But some are much better;
I mean to write letters,
But they’re never quite done.
They’re there in my mind, sir:
My kindest of letters;
They’re there in my mind, sir,
But what can be done?
Best left to their betters,
These thrice-cursed letters;
Best left to their betters,
For I am quite done.
Bear with me,
Watch me patiently:
Try to read my story,
Though I know I am a fool.
There are times I’ll say
More than ought to cross your way,
And then there’s times I’ll say
Almost nothing at all.
And if you try to stay,
It might be me who turns away;
Mad with the fear I might not see the day,
I verge so nearly upon cruel.
But if you try to see,
And accept even the worst of me,
I don’t think I could be anything
But your lucky little fool.
If you have nothing nice to say,
Say nothing at all.
…Until you’re badgered again and again
To be the little princess, the doll:
Then, you have to speak —
But never of what matters;
And listen patiently to everything,
But never offer answers.
‘Cause who needs those, really?
We each make up our own.
And who cares, really,
If it even hits home?
Like everything else,
It’s just… good enough.
And if you’re not content:
Well — tough.
Writer In Retrospect 