My Words

I'm tired of pretending
that what really matters
is the color of lipstick
(I don't even wear any)
or the big sale at Macy's,
just to make you like me.

I'm tired of only
the daily demands for
sustenance and repose,
because I worry about my health.

I'm tired of feeling guilty
for not accepting the claim
that power and money will bring true elation,
although its what we're told.

I'm tired of thinking I am the one who needs to change,
to become someone else than who I am,
to stop speaking my mind
and to shut off my thoughts,
because I bore you needlessly.

I'm tired of the idle chatter
which leaves my heart empty.

You write such elegant lines,
your words forming crusty edges
of well-worn experience.
You feed me,
you fill me whole,
so why am I still hungry?

Is it true that the writer will starve
if not fed
at least occasionally
on her own words?

Has it been so long?

But MY words sound so bland,
so worn,
so simple.
They walk so limply,
they laugh so quietly,
they sing so off-key.

My words frighten me,
they betray me,
they reveal my lack of confidence in myself.
They remind me of how tiny and insignificant I feel
when standing face to face with you.
When I try to speak
I am reminded of my pettiness
in the face of your knowledge and worldliness.

Where are you my neglected muse?
Have you forsaken me out of spite?
Has my love affair with the words of others
made you turn against me?
Help me find my strength again,
my inner strength.
Help me find my soul,
the one that has deep pockets of sustenance.
Help me throw away my feelings of inadequacy,
of self-doubt,
of guilt,
of loathing.

How to win you back,
just for a day
or an eternity?

Perhaps it is time to go barefoot again?
Save shoes for another day!