No One Pays a Poet

The poets mind

Wrapped tightly In a poet's mind

Just above the 

Threshold of lies,

And rich with unspent emotion -

Rests the vast 

Empathic expanse

Of every tortured soul begging for an ear. 

Listen. In the quietness

A poet hears

What isn't spoken

Bits of breath and desperate sighs

Drift along 

The subconscious 

Twisting turning waiting to be captured. 

With  bent fingers poised above

An empty page

He beckons unspoken lines 

To stay... and 

sit awhile 

To be caressed and loved... And understood

Once satisfied, each penned thought

Is carefully tucked 

Into a secret place

One after another after another

Adding to his collection

Of broken things. 

Creating an inner voice as he goes

Muttered memories dangle

On the edge of unheard echoes 

Unformed words...-shhh -

Begin a steady hummmm

Then crescendo to a roar

They spill over,  like lava 

Leaving scars on the canvas

Ragged lines hidden beneath cloth

Becoming a constant reminder

Of times best forgotten. 

Spent emotion seeps from wounds 

Release is sweet, thoughts are rich 

Surrendering relieves the pain -

Yet the page is blank. 

Forming words from

Memories and expectations 

Let's the unknown become known. 

The effort to live in

Gently wrapped memories

And through vulnerable words 

Threatens the delicate balance

Between happiness and despair. 

Danger lurks as lips move

Across the page 

Everyone's a critic. 

Thou shalt not fear

For the expressions 

Hanging from the cuff

Are pressed between 

Solid bound covers

Placed On a dusty shelf. 

So soon forgotten... 

Memory suddenly stirs

 In those left behind

And the search for truth 

Begins again. 

Longing for answers to unasked questions

The pages are  dusted off 

and carefully turned

Until the poet becomes a legend

Bigger than what he was

Now infamous

His words cost money he can never spend

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

My goodness, yes. Poets live poor, they die poor. And if they become famous and their work sells, it is long after they are gone.
Imagine what Emily Dickinson might have made from the 1775 poems she wrote, but only published 11 anonymously during her lifetime.
All of the books she could have put out, as her work still sells today.
Plath died at such a young age...and her work is famous and still sells...but she reaps no benefits posthumously.
We poets search for truth. Others find us once we are gone, and we can only hope they appreciate that truth we did leave behind, because for us, it is never about the money.
Really good piece, here.
j.

[LynGeist]

You're right, it's never about the money. Good thing it isn't too! Sometimes I think it's about the fame though. Actually, I don't think we write to be famous. I think we write because it's part of us and we HOPE we can, by chance, end up famous. Recognition of your hard work is always a nice feeling. And on that note, thank you for the compliment on this one. ♥️

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Geez, Lyn...and here I thought I would write five poems and become a millionaire...oh well...:))))

[LynGeist]

Ha ha ha ha probably not even 500 my friend. Have a wonderful day! ☺️