The recliner over in the corner, the one next to the piano
That nobody seems to play anymore.
I wrote of that piano once, how it and I had so much in common
That we both sit, unheard.
My pen in hand, and notebook in the other, I began to write
First, I had this idea of a woman that was stranded on an island
Which for some reason got me thinking about sex
Which always seems to distract me for a while.
The phone rings, but it isn’t for me
Someone has the wrong phone number, and ruined my daydream.
Begin to draw a picture of a dragon, then remember I cannot draw
So I begin my poem, unsure what it will be about.
Writing has always been my passion, my first love
Only one person has ever said they loved me, then spoke poorly of it
He obviously isn’t around anymore.
I always try to think of one part of my life to add to a write
Whether it is a feeling I can relate to, or the color of dress I really do own
That way a piece of me is in every write.
Sometimes I hate rhyming, or a poem doesn’t make sense with it
Or it is one of those that have something I really need to say
And I don’t want the hurdle of rhyming slowing me down.
This one, it is translucent
Easily decoded once you get past the ideals
Which I have only put in the write to see if I could divert your attention
It rarely works, but I always try it.
When I get nearly done with it, I stare at the wall
I realize that writing isn’t looking at the wall, blankly…
It is looking through it.