Though words emanate from my mouth,
spinning and thrashing about,
where they fall is anyone’s guess,
I, aspiring less and less to care,
for truth may fall on deaf ears,
ears that wish not to know,
and no matter the words espoused,
they have nowhere to go.
Holding attention is a mean task,
and for those who would listen,
most agree they do not want to change,
to rearrange their lives for the better,
for that would be a weighted responsibility,
a practice of futility,
when the comfort of denial
is far more acceptable.
So we writers and poets aspire to write,
to inspire with words of truth,
to give hope to allow one to cope
with the many burdens in life,
but it seems our sacrifice of time and heart
is placated by a reader resistance,
a stubborn refusal to change, take a different view
to make life better and evolve.
So if I write inane prose,
without content and in pretty floral words,
I’ll be a hit, an agreed champion of the masses,
a poet of great esteem and readership,
as I am understood, brandishing imagery
of love’s address and floral beds and mist,
all that make me sick to my stomach,
as it is regurgitated a million-fold.
I cannot lower my own standards,
but the readership cannot raise theirs higher,
and so we are in a mire, a great divide
between what is written and what is read:
what is light and understood
and what is heavy and dreaded,
for all the new words implicated
in learning just to understand.
What a bind, within which I stand,
where only a few may understand,
and me not able to dumb down my work,
just for the sake of a few more readers,
and who would want them,
with no aspirations to learn, to better understand,
and we the voices so keen to share,
and help in life’s grand plan.
Tony DeLorger © 2018