Semita Vol. I

Artists

I wonder if I've reached a point,
Where I've said all I need to say.
I wonder if I've already written
All the things I can today.
I look back at the works of the past,
And wonder if my work is finished.
I reread all of my broken pacts,
And wonder why my words seem tarnished.

But maybe the problem isn't that I have no stories,
But that the words I use have lost their meaning?
Maybe I've become so focused on the keys and pen strokes,
That I've forgotten what it means for my writing to have feeling?
Maybe I should start again and write these words anew,
Maybe I should focus on the art of something that remains true.
Maybe I should stop trying to simply write these verses,
And focus on trying to be a true artist of emotions.

So, I wish I could just once write a poem
That's beautiful instead of functional.
I wish just once elegant words would tumble
From my mouth, like a flowing waterfall.
I wish just once my hands could paint a portrait
As vivid as a brilliant violet sunset.
I wish just once I could express these emotions
Like a burst of red fury on an empty canvas.

I wish these letters could be read someday,
With the power of a perfectly sung rhapsody.
I wish these sentences could one day be
As immortal as the great sculptures of humanity.
I wish these phrases could be something different
Than all the words that I'm used to writing.
I wish my stanzas could somehow cease to be
A clash of empty similes caught in eternal fighting.

I wish, I wish, I wish for something selfish indeed.
I wish, I wish, I wish, for something I don't truly need.
I wish, I wish, I wish, for some peace and artistic clarity.
I wish to sing, I wish to play, I wish to paint, I wish in vain.
I wish, I wish, I wish to be more like the friends around me,
Those friends that sing songs forged of purest beauty.
I wish, I wish, I wish to be like the students that I see,
Who play those hauntingly perfect melodies.

I wish to be like them.
I wish to make "true" art.
I wish for these empty desires as my self loathing quietly feeds.
I wish for "perfection" and to forget the gift God bestowed on me.
The gift of crafting words, the gift of winning each imaginary fight,
The gift of giving life to the world within my sight,
The gift of living through paper and pouring my soul into the ink,
The gift I never asked for, but the gift it seems I need.