Sunday, April 28, 2013


That night you asked me
to sing to you.
And I knew that if I did
the wind would carry my notes 
without feeling the burden 
of a tuneless voice.
And I knew that if I could
just coax the sound out
you'd like the song I'd sing.
But yet, try as I might I couldn't.
The songs and the tunes and
the notes and the lyric would
just not come to me.
It didn't seem difficult and
my incessant no sounded
ridiculous even to me.
But something held my voice
in a vice like grip and I kept
choking from inside out.
There was no explanation.
And every wasted moment and
weak excuse seemed to only
anger my waiting audience.
I eventually did sing I think.
I don't remember now.
But even if I did, it didn't matter.
Because you were already disappointed.
What I do remember is that
through my window the moon 
was full and wire-meshed
and the night purple.
And I remember thinking that
more than the big failures
it's the little disappoints you cause
that eventually fill you up
and leave you empty. 

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