Then I quickly close the cover to my journal and pretend that shit doesn't exist, because come on... Poetry? Joe writes poetry? Yeah, no.
But I figure, hey, it's 5 PM and I need to get something up today. Traffic on the internet is really low after a certain point in the afternoon, and I don't have a topic to write about. So I'll share a bit of my sappy crap. If it sucks, we won't do this again, ever. But if it doesn't, maybe I'll revisit it... Maybe. And just for the record, none of this stuff pertains to my divorce. Trust me... It wouldn't be this flowery.
Just know, I'm really sensitive about this shit right here. So be kind.
I am in love with people I've never met.
I am proud of accomplishments I never got to see.
I am sad for losses I've never experienced.
I am lonesome for loves I've never had.
I am homesick for places I've never been.
I love in the hope that you may one day recognize it.
I celebrate so that you know joy.
I hurt in the hope that you won't have to.
And with any luck,
If I do my job well,
I just might make you remember these things you've never done
When you're stuck in the middle of doing them yourself.
Sometimes, I wish...
But mostly, I believe.
You only want to give the world your heart.
It's the only reason you even make an attempt at art.
And of course they don't get it. Of course they don't care.
How inconvenient of you to even attempt to share!
You want to give up. Maybe you even do.
But it's only for a while, because you can't hide from you.
The only ways to scratch that itch at the back of your brain
Is with black cold steel and one big Bang...
Or, the better way, with your pencil or pen
Scratching at that itch again and again.
And you put it out there, not to be told it's good,
But in the hopes that it is understood.
It's the beautiful struggle, and it can tear you apart.
But it's the only way you'll ever be true to your heart.
And all the failures and losses and horrors and pain you've ever suffered in your life fade away
The moment someone finally looks into your eyes and says:
"I understand. Thank you."
I'm not very good at a lot of things.
I can't paint you pictures because the beautiful things in my head won't come out of my hands.
I can't sing to you, because I smile every time I look at you and it makes my voice crack.
I can't play an instrument.
I can't sculpt.
I can't do a lot of things.
But I can write.
So I will write to you.
And If I lose power in my house, I'll write by the light of the sun.
If the sun burns out, I will write by candlelight or moonlight or starlight.
I'll write in no light, and be guided by faith that my words come out right.
I will bring you books I write, in pieces and fragments; splinters of larger works.
I will share with you whatever you want to read.
I will bring you my thoughts and my stories.
I will capture my days and nights and bring them to you...
As long as you want them.
She is a walk in the rain after wine and brie
She is what the sun rises to shine on
She is the smell of coffee first thing in the morning
She is a smile greeting me from the top of the stairs as I hold a conversation with the dog
She is both arms wrapped around me (with a leg draped over mine)
She is a face buried in my chest
She is the stain on my shirt of tears cried in earnest
She is worth the drive
She is the embers of a fire that once burned in my heart
She is fair
She is honest
She is gone.
Tonight we dance with words
We share the lead in conversation
We glide through it so easily
As if we were made for this.
But you keep your distance
Something about me scares you
And what you won't accept
(Or perhaps, keep forgetting):
We are not permanent,
And neither are our mistakes.
My toes are not fragile.
Don't be afraid to step on them.
They will heal.