What Would Happen If I Really Wrote What I Knew?
A poem about productivity and little to show for it.
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What if all I’ve known lately is laying on the couch watching geniuses create, thinking to shoulda, woulda, coulda?
I’ve spent too much time staring into space and thanking the heavens I’m alive,
but also secretly wishing for stronger skin and a simpler mind.
What if I’m tired of critics who have nothing helpful to say or know what I need to hear?
My radio blares telling me, being a legend in the making takes time,
but, what if sometimes I just wanna lay low to stay up?
Today I crave silence and solitude with a side of salt n’ vinegar Cape Cod chips
to refresh myself and prep me to recover, rethink, review.
In between the crunch, I replay my life choices like a movie leading up to the climax,
just before the protagonist has a devastating moment and recovers quicker than it took them to fall?
But, what if this moment doesn’t come sooner rather than later?
My soul is tethered to my body and I need to push a lever wielding productivity to let it all out.
I’m getting tired of inputting personal pep talks, writing time, posting, and seeing outputs only once in a while.
Day-by-day I let my words hang out to dry on dry-erase boards made messy with to-do lists, checkmarks, and sticky notes.
I feed the machine figures of speech and nouns switched around a dozen times until I build the courage to hit a green publish button.
Night-by-night, I wipe up tears I never meant to release but fought back and pushed past a film of haze and the blur of a full workweek.
Swift and sprawling, they fall hot, cool down quickly then slowly roll to my cheeks numbing them emotionless again.
Here I go, being expressionless again.
Because on these pages, I don’t know what to say exactly but I’m just writing what I know and saying what I never could aloud to people who know me best but not well enough.
