My trade in life, 20 years of it
demands that I deliver
both brevity and clarity –
I am constantly
parsing and whittling,
editing myself down to the one
perfect – but ordinary – word
that says everything that once was stated with 30.
And then there’s my own personal penchant for sparsity and nuance.
Any novel I might have once
held inside of me
has been reduced to a few disjointed blog posts.
By the time I finish some projects,
I actually delete the whole thing
and have nothing.
Or I don’t write enough and
no one knows what I mean;
they fill in the spaces between with
their own thoughts.
But its not just my writing.
It’s also what I do in my dealings with other people.
I don’t say enough.
Or I’m worried I won’t make sense so I refrain.
Maybe I finally decide to say nothing at all because
it isn’t going to make a difference
and in the silence, I am interpreted and inferred into
something that is not my own.
I’m quiet a lot.
Feeling too much perhaps.
But very quiet.