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I stepped down into a street not knowing
Directions or intentions
Or anything much at all

I stepped down and hoped for once
That the world would know better
Than it led me to believe

Life presented itself as a party
And my invitation was always in your name
No one ever really wanted me around
You made them welcome me

I can’t begin to feign contentment
I lose myself in subtle things, it’s true
But I’m fading out and near forgotten
Just not sure of what to do

I want to be a dead poet


I wrote this a while back, put it in my little book of poems. People that I wanted to have read it didn’t. They don’t often do. Most are just busy, I suppose and yet others I’m sure are thinking, “God, more poems?” I guess I am strange to most of my friends. Lovely, loyal, sometimes liberating them from their humdrum monotony of typical adulthood, but strange, nonetheless. And that is by far not me complaining, merely explaining.
I’ve been losing myself in music again, more and more and I’ve realized that to be a true music lover without the ability to create it is like being in a foreign country where you understand the language, but cannot ask where the bathroom is without pointing to your crotch and looking exasperated. I want to speak the language too. I want in on the conversation. But then, my mind wonders and I contemplate other options.
Upon further examination, most of my favorite musicians, while they have scores of musical favorites that have helped shape and form them, they often cite other forms of art and, therefore, other types of artists as their muse. So maybe we are all needed. Maybe somewhere down the line someone will pay close enough attention to what I write and make a beautiful song for me, one that I can claim in some uncertain and yet remarkably undeniable way. It will be my “living word book” to make up for all the times and ways in which the bible has been used against me. It will be the Jen to Everyone else translation book, set to music. Who knows? One day, maybe there will be a collage class on the words I’ve jotted down and people will talk about me like I’ve mattered. And I guess, in doing so, I will have.
The trick for me, and it gets harder every day, is to stick around long enough to put work out there that warrants that kind of attention and observation. Again, time. It’s always the enemy. I’m constantly and frantically trying to find projects that fill up moments so that maybe, if there are enough messages written in enough bottles, when I take my walk into the ocean something of value will come back to shore and a person can point and say, “Ah, yes, more poems!”
One can hope. And now, back to more music.



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