I wrote a poem and here it is.

OK, I wrote a poem. I’m unfamiliar with this art but I am staying with this vulnerability, I am leaning into this. Remember when we were kids and we all wrote poems? We painted, we acted, we sung, we wrote songs, we wrote short stories, and we fell in love with our work. I wrote this poem a month ago I don’t even know why I did and have kept it in my notebook, haven’t even looked at it again. Because many of us, now all grown up and filed down by life, deny our natural desire, NEED, to create. We are all creators. We all want to work and make things but somewhere in our life’s education, we were told we only create may one thing. The rest is for someone else. Well, that is BS. We are all poets, singers, songwriters, playwrites, painters, sketchers, fashion designers, architects, we’re the actor, the director, the visionary. 

Last night, I was sitting in the airport with my headphones in, scrolling through whatever sh** I apparently needed to see and then a young girl tapped on my shoulder. In Spanish, she informed me she was now putting on her ballet and I could watch. I thanked her, I took out my music, and I watched this girl dance her absolute heart out for a full 7-10 minutes with no music. This was no random dance, there was a plot, a story. There was drama. A lot of thought went into her movements. Now I will admit, this was the first ballet I have ever attended, but it was easily the best ballet I’ve ever seen.  I applauded and complimented but she was very indifferent about how I felt about her ballet. She did not need me to be proud of her work or tell her to continue. She walked back to her corner of the international arrivals gate and created a new ballet. It was not about the performance, it was about the work. It was not for me, it was for her. 

So same.

No title because I have no idea how to title a poem that’s too far for me. 

There is something romantic about an expert at work. At play.

I watch him watch.

He is looking for something specific.

The amateur longs to see what he recognizes like family.

He watches so patiently

So accepting

Almost indifferent but not quite.

There is longing but it is aged.

It has matured.

He knows only a child wants what is not being given.

He knows his is a sport of receiving.

He has surrendered control

and even the desire for control.

He only wants what is being offered freely.

With a lack of disappointment, he turns.

He has something better to do

But he’ll be back.

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