specters

the public

Swirl around in effortless stature, leaving all in time.

The words they say and what I read; common phrases in my mind.

Can’t ever find the ones to sketch, pencil cold and thin.

So afraid of all that normal, hate if it would blend in.

All of the famous for what I do too, they figured out a means.

Excluding tries, success and fail, I can’t break through the seams.

And even though the praise is there,

The structure is flawed and bare.

And even though my soul is present,

The public doesn’t care.

Elder will pass on by me, with knowledge gained in sizes.

Substitutions, tweaks and whole revisions made in hasty disguises.

Leaking with sorrow, pain, despair, the sentences may crash.

And in the honesty of Lincoln most of the works were rash.

Yet every ounce of heart and love could be filtered in the page,

Audiences filled with same emotion, hatred or tears or rage.

And even though the praise is there,

The structure is flawed and bare.

And even though my soul is present,

The public doesn’t care.

It wouldn’t matter after a day, when else steals center stage,

My meaning and my work will collapse from the people’s engage.

Poe, Hemingway, Shakespeare, capturing all in awe.

Tell me what I need to do to fix my fatal flaw.

Flitting around ideas galore, the grace immense and flowing.

Unable to work it out, on no account are my phrases glowing.

Because even though the praise is there,

The structure is flawed and bare.

Because even though my soul is present,

The public will never care.