Often, I beg: Open me. Please.
Fill the wound with something I can use
Deliver me words like a sunbeam gilding dust.
//
The words come too much, not enough. I can't
pin beating wings to cardboard, or map the movement
of a firefly unless it's in a jar.
//
And so it's like, shut up. Adults are talking.
How will I ever know when I'm hearing it right
if I never listen?
//
They talk too much: be teachable, patient, pliant,
ready with my knife. When it hurts to hone
it's working.
//
The vase is only dangerous when it turns to narrow diffuse light.
The wound is still waiting to be heard.
Are you listening?
About the Creator
Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insights
Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
Easy to read and follow
Well-structured & engaging content
Expert insights and opinions
Arguments were carefully researched and presented
Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
Comments (6)
such an amazing writer
The firefly/butterfly lines were my favourite bit- so evocative of flighty ideas, sometimes here then disappearing too quickly. Itβs hard to grasp and hold when the words start coming, but such a good feeling!
'I can't pin beating wings to cardboard, or map the movement of a firefly unless it's in a jar.' Wow wow wow, those are perfect lines!!! "When it hurts to hone it's working." That is painfully accurate but wonderfully worded. Those last two lines especially are utterly breathtaking!
I agree with Hayley, that is an amazing line. But the final question is what got me. The implication that artists do not listen to their inner woundedness is deeply saddening
Gosh this was so freaking deep! Loved your poem so much!
Loved this Suze! You captured the tortured creative so well! My fav line was, "When it hurts to hone...it's working."