There are stage productions where the audience consists of the immediate members of the production staff and performers family. They attend as an obligation if they attend at all. Its not a simple task sitting through productions one after the other, feigning smiles and providing false raves about their performance and or the production as a whole.

The same can be said about television shows which are cancelled due to dismal viewership. It doesn’t matter how good the show, (See Good Girls Revolt – watch it on Amazon Prime) or watch Glow on Netflix. .

The same cannot be said about annoying supposed authors such as myself. I post on Instagram, Threads and Facebook and mostly get less “likes” then the fingers on my hand. (One hand, not even both).

I bear no malice to the ones who swipe past or ignore my posts. I do the same. Also, I know I kvetch a lot and can seem downcast at times.

Some examples:

After the flood, a soft musical sound is whispering, poetic champions composing and comparing, rhymes and metaphors, love and the hurt that accompanies it.
Sirens exposing their hearts, see the water flutter in the soft drizzle. Can you see the broken arrows on the ground? The hands of time in pieces, numbers scattered on the river, flowing, flowing.
Photographs, love letters – recipes for disaster and celebration, each torn and burned in a unique print.
We all feel uniquely, we each love uniquely. Take my hand…

In the empty spaces where I once sat, spoke, dreamed and loved…the voices and the images, blurred but easily identifiable, poke and prod me, the pricking of my emotions. the blood will dry and scabs will form, but the scars will remind us from time to time.

He stood and watched as the people rushed across time. He thought about a song he used to listen to and wondered if anyone still listened.
The great bridge laid across this stormy water, sunset on the west, moon rising on the east.
Breezes, stagnation, hot, cold and then, warmth.
He stood and thought about what he had chosen and felt satisfied.
He wouldn’t change a thing if it meant all that followed would be erased.
Standing on the apex in a world severely broken and filled with hatred. He looks down and stands aside and chooses love.

Not to mention the novellas I have written. Available on Amazon – Songs and Stories: Coreys Coming Paperback – September 11, 2012 based on the Harry Chapin song, “Corey’s Comin”
There was my other novella, Songs in Stories: Taxi Paperback – October 9, 2012, based on Harry’s song, “TAXI.”

But my biggest frustration was the novella I wrote, Owned No More: Life of a Salesman Paperback – April 28, 2019. A sort of salesman loses his cool after being unable to truly sell himself to anyone in his life. I loved this one – maybe it cut too close to home for me. I don’t know – no one really read it other than four people or so. (Not including my mom who I suspect didn’t read it thoroughly – but she is my biggest, only?, fan)

After that I was hired to write several biographies – one of which has yet to be approved for release. Another which was released with major edits (Think Elvis’ haircut when he was drafted).

I came to realize that people only want to idealize a life rather than see the hardships and the imperfect decisions made along the road from birth to death. Without those decisions – who are we? Some people would rather forget.

So my point in all of this – I believe I will take a short hiatus from writing publicly.

Writing and hoping for some sort of recognition and rarely getting it takes away the joy and love in creating the worlds I have created. Ultimately the important recognition is my own. If I am happy – I feel fulfilled. Yet…

The desire remains despite the empty arena’s and theaters. I will be back – sooner rather than later I would bet for the simple reason that I may touch one soul who will read it and feel seen, inspired or touched in some manner.

I once wrote a short about the “The Curse of the Poet”

Confetti sprinkling the streets in distinctive hues of blue, red and gold.
Parades of working class heroes coming up from underground. Walking as if in a trance.
New York City, a week or so from Christmas, cold air and green trees line the sidewalks.
But the beauty is lost and ignored.

A bell rings, a sharp blade slices a string and balloons are set free, towards the cloudy sky where snow refuses to fall. The red river is flowing and the end of the year is coming soon. I wander through the streets just wondering what is next for me.

I want to be free… Need to be free to be me. Not trying to rhyme here it’s simply how I feel.

Breathe, breathe, breathe…

Lost in my over thinking…the curse of the poet who dares to see beyond what others pretend to recognize. To define colors as only their own eyes can define them. To hear the music and read the words better than the composers or the scribblers.

The curse of the poet who dares to love way too intensely and yearns for a life others would find unbearable.

I love, I want, I lust, I ache to walk along the path untrodden yet to find my way home quickly. My soul is imprisoned by hopeless aims constructed by others who preach which path I should follow in life; to simply follow them as they follow their own path towards their own goals.

I cannot lie anymore

If I do I will not live for long.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Her beauty is unequal, her love is so true. How come it’s such a task for her to say “I love you?” To cede some space for me, to open her arms and lips for me?

It’s the poets burden to walk this empty loathsome, lonesome path yet still see beauty in the barren trees and unsown earth.

Others will never understand just what it is that I see. They can never understand the emotional surge I feel when I love…needing an outlet and a true echo to express it back to me, in physicality, in praise and in truth.

I can’t go back, I won’t go back, I cannot breathe inside there…

Like a wild horse confined in a stable, I’m kicking and fighting the confines they have placed me in. Overheated with no ventilation – perspiring and dehydrating…

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Breathing is key to a humans survival, writing to me, whether read by others or not, is just as important to my survival. Is it a blessing, a curse? A burden or a responsibility? If one is given the talent and does not express and share it – isn’t that a sin?

I don’t know what all of this was about – I guess a pity party with no RSVPS received, since no invitations have been sent – or maybe my invitation is sent by posting this and hoping others can relate.

Do you relate?