A writer living in the suburbs of everyone�s soul

I don't recall what ..brought this one about..

 

 

I think that there is a writer living in the suburbs of everyone’s

soul.

Sometimes, I think that this writer is a hermit.

Unlike my own .. Who so often demands to be heard,

 

who moved from the suburbs a long time ago,

who sleeps in my bed.,who makes love to me as I sleep,

who cries in the middle of the night ,who has coffee with me in the

morning and likes to talk while I am reading , or walking or doing

just about anything ,

as you can imagine privacy is often lost.

 

I’m afraid this writer’s an extrovert and has often talked me into

exposing myself in front of people, those tender fragile emotions

that one must often keep hidden from those who might tap dance

on them.

.

 

Once I was swimming naked in a pool of my own tears and the

writer invited company and another time when my heart had broken

the writer dissected it

in a public place and posted it on pages for the world to see and I

had to look at myself turned inside out.

 

I do believe there is a writer living in the suburbs of everyone’s soul

Someday when I’m dead the words will live on as my soul my

breath , my heartbeat and my legacy and I will have no privacy.

I will not regret that I have lived a life in written words and that I

have been fragile in front of the world .

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Gandré]

I really like this quiet reflection, you deliver poetry that is inpiring, beautifully bittersweet.

(Thank you also for liking my poem Guidance. Much appreciated!)

[R J Askew]

You capture the gist of it. The writer possesses us and will not go. It is a terrible way to be. We get no piece. The writer uses us for its own purpose, whatever that may be. We become conduits for its words. Our lives are spent in servitude to the writer and we only find peace when we are dead. We cease to live normal lives the second the writer takes us over. And we can never please the writer, can never be good enough.