by ToadSoda

I wish I wrote that song
stuck in your head
The one that makes everyone stop and listen
But there's no music in me
I'm all ears
I'm a fish in the desert,
a cactus in the sea
Your art owns me
and I don't think it's fair.
I have the silent art
the one that doesn't speak
or dance
or play
or use bold, vibrant brush strokes on 8 foot canvas
Is observation an art?
Are the sentences strung together
end to end to end
anything more than my over worked brain
trying to unravel
the tangle of crap
I've poured into my day?
This page is a wall
between me and greatness
it stares back at me half empty
like a tired old cliche
and it confounds greatness
it avoids greatness
the flat words look like tangled strings
threads discarded from my train of thought
and how could I be heard?
This silent notebook that I bought
at the dollar store
because I can't resist a brand new notebook
with crisp lined pages that beckon
I had to buy it
and now it will know me better than anyone
just like all the other half-full notebooks
locked away in this house
filled with the chicken scrawl
of my silent words
they lay flat and folded
dust covered testaments
to the futility that is my one artistic gift
To write, to create meaning, to communicate
but how far has it gotten me?
the writer...
destined to see everyone else's art
destined to be the silent artist
buried forever in these old notebooks