Short sentences written down on paper and papers in a folder. When you take them out you pick a sentence from one and then another from another page and pretty soon there is a pattern of thought. It makes a riddle, a poem or song.
What makes is special is if the reading relates to it and never thinking that the person who penned that little bit of words may have been hurt when writing this work of art. Or maybe, just maybe he was so happy he had to share either the joy or the strength to overcome a hard place in life.
Does this mean failure or success? I suppose the depends on the person who writes the words. Even though they may never be put in a book or magazine is of no interest of the poet. They are the words of the poet and that is all that matters. The poet keeps all those papers either finished or with fragmented sentences that have yet been put together to make something that the poet calls his song.
Maybe someday when the poet is long gone from this world someone reads the words and they become a book with a cool cover and his name on the front. He might not have called what the person who found his words called it and it might not have had the line under his name that proclaims, “Edited by.”
Yet at that point in time the poets has his song. Even though he does not know it he has finally become part of the few that make history by writing short sentences that become a thought, dream or tragedy. If this what it is then those who read it think they know the poet because the poet is talking to them.
I guess you could say that a Poets Song is every word on any page in any folder on any given day. Sometimes those words are lost and some are tossed aside and never take a place in the lives of others who thrive on a Poets Song.
Some days don’t seem real.
A tragedy of sorts.
Dreams of days gone by.
I really don’t know how it happened.
I just know I woke up and it was over.
A future I did not see.
It came to me overnight.
And all the days seemed to be a blur.
A long way from where I started.
But not to far from home.
I look at myself in the mirror.
And I don’t see the one I knew yesterday.
But the lines and gray hair.
They have taken the place of the youth I once knew.
Some days when I look in the mirror don’t like what I see.
Others I don’t see anything at all.
Sometimes I avoid looking in the mirror.
Has my life stopped being a joy is what I wonder.
Wrinkles on the back of my hands.
I remember my hands being smooth.
It seems like it was only yesterday,
When they were smooth and soft.
Yes, some days don’t seem real.
Others just seem like yesterday,
Yesterday when I was young.
Yesterday when nothing mattered.
And so what if it did, it was not mine to change.
Some days are just days.
Yesterday is just what it is, Yesterday.
Tomorrow will eventually become Yesterday.
There have been a lot of Yesterdays.
Kind of wonder when that will end?
A tragedy of sorts.
Life that is.
Maybe this will become a Poets Song someday. Who can tell? A line on a piece of paper. A note on a napkin. Written by someone in a hallway, or in a tent and maybe just maybe under a tree in the back yard of the poets house. If anyone ever see’s the words only time can tell.
The Poets Song. A Tragedy of Sorts. A life of Love, Failures, and Pain.
It is just a Tragedy of Sorts.