I wish there was some kind of a guarantee.
A guarantee that you’d pass – a guarantee that you’d make it.
A guarantee that someone will know what you’ve writ.
Perhaps that’s what I need,
A guarantee that there will be a guarantee.
A guarantee to –
To have someone to tell.
Even if they can’t listen.
To get these thoughts out.
Even if there’s no response.
For now the writer creates his own audience,
While going stir-crazy in his own mind.
Thoughts that demand to be heard as words, they leap to the page in a way that is hoped to give justice in this epiphany that comes all at once.
It’s torture in here for the lonesome writer,
with no physical relief,
when the ideas come swarming in at this grief.
Written down with no where to go,
no one yet to have read or show.
Until then I’m here to create my own audience,
perhaps with thoughts alike.
Because it’s torture in here
with no way to tell,
the thoughts you won’t and can’t hear worth Hell.
I’d do anything,
to make this all dissipate.
When I can’t move a muscle,
and still my tired fingers strain,
while my chest feels more like hit by a train.
When all the while,
the flow of the pen,
is the physical release of my head to my hand.
And in the world of invisible audience,
I still wish there were guarantees,
that someone out there shared my epiphanies.
That with tired eyes and straining pens,
There’s a guarantee of a good end.
That when the ideas come swarming from within this grief,
I’ll look for some way to write and know my tiredness won’t be a thief.
All the while searching for something that could some how see,
the guarantee of a guarantee,
that someone out there is listening to me.