The Poet & The Liar

Words...
where do you come from,
and where will you go?
Will you ever mean something?
Will you ever be known?

Words...
are you from my heart,
or just from my head?
Are you going to be remembered
when all of this ends?

Words...
I know you have saved me,
and I know I'm alive,
but what will you be worth
if tonight I just died?

I've been writing since the early days of junior high, and I simply cannot explain how many various notebooks I have hidden under my bed, or all the ones I have burned because of what the pages scream from the inside. It's a funny thing, taking the time to alleviate your chest and scribble poems or confusing sentences onto loose-leaf, then just watching them turn to ash and blow away within the ways of the winds. It may seem unproductive to some, but you don't understand the relief of letting your thoughts fly into the air.

I haven't burned a poem in years, because I actually promised myself I would keep everything I ever write, and hold it close, hopefully 'til the days of my last breaths. I think this may allow for a more productive relief; a release of thoughts, but chaining them to be forever remembered in my heart. 

Although writing into hidden diaries has always been a brilliant escape from reality, as I grew up I realized that the last thing you ever want to do is escape from reality, rather express your thoughts of where the mind drifts, because someone may also feel that way too. Showing your work to world is what makes an artist real... or at least that's the way I've been feeling lately. 

Having said that, I feel like an absolute hypocrite!...'cause yes, I show as much work to as many people as I can, but there is always more out there that could feel the words I write, if only I would just balls' up and do it. I keep telling myself that I am a poet- an artist of words, but in the grand scheme of things, I am nothing more than that little boy I once was burning notebooks. It's time to be heard by everywhere, by everything, and to stop lying through my teeth when I say, "I am a poet". It's time to give these paragraphs a purpose. It's time to do more, to become something better. It's time to take everything I write and burn it into the atmosphere, but without the flames. No ash, no fading, no disappearing... just let it sink into those breaths so many are dying to take, right at the time when they think they cannot breathe anymore. 

I'm not saying I will ever amount to the words of Shakespeare, or be remembered along side that same darkness of Poe. I'm not saying I will ever write the beautiful choppiness of E.E. Cummings, nor will I ever even understand the words of Whitman, but I am saying is...

My words, they are true, from my heart and soul, stitched together like sweaters to keep you warm, because I know so deeply how cold life can become. It's time to stop claiming the glorious title of a Poet, and actually be heard. Then, maybe, just maybe... one day, I too, will be remembered...

...or at least, when all is said and done, have my words not be forgotten.