The world roars at you,
the voice of reason barking out orders
like a drill sergeant
through responsibility’s megaphone,
telling you to finish your homework,
study for your test,
learn to drive, think about college,
live for the future;
but all you want to do
is hide yourself away where no one can find you
and let your pen press into the page,
the emotions within it spilling out
as simple ink, with which you weave words
which the world,
made deaf from its own cacophony,
only sees, never hears.
You arrange constellations, craft explosions
of truth too bright to bear,
strip away all but your soul, which you show,
to a crowd of uncaring eyes.
Probably just as well—if everyone else cared
about it, would you?
Would you want to show it;
would it even be yours?
Yet still you look up from your contentment
to see a sea of empty smiles,
full of cold endearment and patronizing bemusement,
saying how cute it is,
how quaint, how gross, how pointless,
as if it is meant to be anything
that they can understand
Yet you still hear their voices,
louder in your ears than yours
can ever be in theirs,
and you close the notebook, tucking your heart
away, thinking you can never
come back to it.
But you always do,
turning to a fresh page to start anew
or reexamining a full page, to revitalize the old;
until the day when, perhaps,
you will reach the perfect page,
a piece that will keep you writing
for the rest of your life.
is like being
it is exactly
the same thing.