I’ve always been more of a thinker than a talker, an introvert than an extrovert. But despite all this, there are times I long to speak and converse, to share a story with somebody and to make somebody feel as deeply as I do. Maybe it’s not always possible, but it’s a dream, nonetheless.
It’s one of my jokes that, in my family, my siblings use up my word quota. On a given day, I say maybe a hundred words to their six or seven thousand. (So what if I’m being a little dramatic? No, I don’t actually go around counting people’s words!) But when it comes to writing, I can use thousands of words at once. Writing is my means of expression.
But in a digital world where there are hundreds of writers across the globe, sometimes it feels like I’m writing to the void, the nameless statistics on the internet. No, this isn’t a criticism to you, my dear reader. It’s merely a self-reflection. Often times, I put too much emphasis on wanting to be heard instead of the act of creating itself. This poem is a reflection of the act of creation, of feelings of loneliness, of telling a story, and ultimately, of letting go of self-conceit.
I step out into the night,
toes sinking in a bed of moss,
arms chilled by the moisture hanging in the air,
cradling my words in my hands.
I brought you a symphony—
the music to your eyes,
as the pages flood with letters
and emotions swirl like grains of sand in a full moon tide.
So close your eyes, close your eyes.
Let me tell a story of words that never die.
I wove my words with cobwebs,
strung them up with 550 cord,
and pricked my fingers with a pen.
Though even this novel’s not all that I have,
it tugs like a tether,
it drags like an anchor.
I hold tight, yet I long for the day,
when a whisper will say—
it’s time to let go.
But even the crickets have gone away,
to sing another day,
and the half-drowsed bullfrog
utters a croak.
Would that he weren’t the only one
But the world’s not empty,
though my words ring hollow
in the night.
My only audience—
the bullfrog, the waning moon,
the sliver of my heart
that bounds like a sprite
at some whisper, some word—
hold on one more day—
it’s going to be all right.
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Let’s chat! What is one of your means of expression? Do you ever feel like you’re speaking to the void? What’s one of the ways you deal with loneliness?
Similar poems: Starlight, The Muse, and Lost as a Leaf
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