August

Another midnight
In the silence of the dark
I am playing poet
Listening to moody music
Attempting to awaken the deepest spirit
Trying to find words that matter
But all I can come up with is this —-

Maybe I am empty
Maybe there is nothing left
Of the artist I thought I was
Maybe I should just shut up

Another midnight
Alone in the quiet
Writing words that echo
And hurt my sense of who I am
Who I think I should be
Who I might be

If I was an eagle
I would fly far and away into the sky
Knowing deeply that I am who I am
Leaving no words behind