And he asked me what I was writing
As I sat in the sunshine
Flannel shirt
Old jeans
Bare feet
Brought back to earth
After another flight of fancy
Writing?
Glasses shoved to nose I considered
For a moment
The point of my prose
“Just the words to the human song..
A condition we share
Anyone can sing along
I am lonely
I am scared
I have been high
Low
Sad
I’ve been there and back again
Hardly waiting to unpack my bags I’ll go there again
And again
And I’ll write the words
Like breath
Over and over
We never stop till we die
We all know the tune
But some like I
Know the words
He nodded and took a fold
Of the paper I tore
It fitted in his mouth
He knew the score
And he liked the way the words tasted
He didn’t feel like that particular experience was wasted
Anymore
As long as someone else knew how he felt
In this moment
Chapter and verse
These were his lines
And besides
Why would anyone come to a poet for any other reason
We’re a thoughtful lot
And not much good
For general conversation
But we can share the odd line
In time
Till you reach the next destination
Poets above all writers have their fingers on the pulse of the world!
They do. That’s a lovely way to put it.
Kate, you are always an inspiration to me!
Thanks Andrada, that’s lovely to hear – I just bought your book! Can’t wait to read it. ❤️
Thank you so much !❤️❤️❤️
A pleasure my friend looking forward to reading it.
Oh so true! What a special gift you can give to others in helping their hearts to be heard ♥️
I think it is the resonance that people love in words whether it is in music or poetry, a movie or a book – it’s that “me too” feeling of kinship. We all want to be understood yet can barely understand ourselves