Why say what’s been said
A thousand other ways?
Why waste precious ink on another worn-out metaphor,
Another narrative torn from an ancient template
That sits and sighs, over-used?
This question looms over page—
A shadow, casting accusations and reminders
Of my limited experience.
My hand pauses midair over page;
Thoughts of eternity and yesterday,
And the song dancing through my head
Swirl together — fast and bright.
And I wonder,
Is this path I tread
Are the joys and sorrows
Of just another day
To be enshrined in the miles of classics
And the heart of a reader?
There are no answers smiling firm and sure.
What is a blessing if not to be exhaled,
What is grief if left to churn bitterly
And never be strung out—
Catharsis and commiseration?
What’s an idea shaking the bars of its cage?
But the story longs to be told,
Beauty and truth seep through all corners of creation.
Why not my pen, too?
Perhaps this is the better question.