Be the Muse for Once

Have you ever noticed the way your fingers fidget between lined journal paper,
and do you know about the glow you radiate,
before you perform a piece?

Does the excitement begin when you’re writing a poem,
or when your palms meet mic and stand,
and is it scary?
– the excitement.

Is it exhausting being a poet?
To find the caramel in a traumatic moment,
and to find a purpose in the mundane.

I know the burdens of carrying an anchor in a dried up sea,
and trying to find the blooming roses in the caves of forgotten dreams.

The ache to have a poem written about you,
for you,
creeps in the walls and sleeps in the attics of our homes,
and we’re left to wonder if it’s shy,
– or here to haunt us.

We are the poets, the hopeless romantics,
we are the romanticized lovers,
who write about our partners perfect imperfections,
or how the trees smile when we sing to ourselves on an afternoon stroll,
but no one talks about the bones in a sack,
on a rack in the backrooms of wondering what it’s like to be th
topic of a poem.

What a thrill it would be to have a poem dedicated for you,
I want to know how the ocean carefully carries seashells to the seashores,
so that my feet can stumble upon them and my fingers can caress the edges,
of a metaphorical seashell of your wildest desires.

The wondrous curiosity of,
what you think the autumn skies whisper about,
when my back is turned,
and if the leaves blush when they turn red.

This poem is for the poets,
who forget to breathe when writing stanzas,
of a moment,
so precious,
an image would taint.

This is for the ones who,
stare at the night sky while the stars swim,
in the abyss of their pupils.

The ones who keep their favourite poems,
in a box with a lock,
under their beds,
so that they’d feel the security of having it read.

I want to taste the burdens from the tears and sweat,
that pour out as you finish that final line.

Make my way into your arms so that I could embrace,
your collapse.

I know what it’s like to only have the comfort,
of a pen and paper,
a laptop keyboard clicking,
and a thesaurus to try and find the right word,
for what you’re feeling.

Let me help you find shelter between the similes and metaphors,
because maybe,
for once,
we can breathe.

We can build a garden of our favourite fruits,
from the labors we endured,
make jelly sandwiches with the dandelions,
and I have a question for you.

How does it feel,
to be the topic of a poem?

Pte San Win Little Whiteman is a student at Oglala Lakota College.

Leave a Reply