After the poem I told my phone friend that ‘it isn’t about being honest anymore, it is about being clever’.
How wrong I was.
Being clever, I did write something that some people thought was really spectacular, but a friend who mattered a lot more ridiculed it, tore it down, spat at it. He asked me if there was a single line in the poem that was honest (quite honestly, I thought there might be one in the sixteen)but there wasn’t. He was the only person who saw through.
Any wonder he mattered more?
I saw now that the joy in writing comes from not words, but emotions. That the moment, you try to duplicate a feeling or create one, you make it much lesser an expression. That the glory doesn’t lie in belligerent praise, but in apt justification of the endeavour.
I see that there is absolutely no point in trying to express something I did not feel.I am sorry I tried.
If you are not true to the one thing that makes you, you lose it. Not to never come back again, but to just not be there then, as you try and try to be what you were.
Like green trees in autumn.
This letter I write to you, my love
My heart , My dreams , My beautiful word
These lines I feel are you, my love
My stake , My death , My Sinful mirth
These things I’d get for you my love
The stars, the rains, the evening sun
These things I’ll share with you love
A start, an end and a backward run
In Times I lived for you my love
I laughed , I danced , I breathed my best
For Times In you I lived my love
I hurt and fled, my friend of trust
So now I say this, my love
I love you still, I’ll love you just
For love you say I mean, my love
I love you still, I love you must