Blown about like a shuttlecock,
buffeted by winds of fleeting emotion. Assigned like fatigues to each new recruit.
The foolish craftsman hurls gobs of want like plaster at a wall hopeful
that with repetiton, it will, at long last and finally stick;
not just stick, but form of itself a sculptured mantle to hold his dreams,
to bear the weight of his future.
The composer though, wiser with his years, does not labour over his compositions.
He bides, knowing they will arrive of their own accord and on their own schedule,
complete, needing only the confidence of his readied pen to burst forth fully formed
and echo their perfection through the ages.
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This poem speaks to a great deal of what I am going through. I wonder if I am really a composer. My posts are not bursting forth fully formed. They are dripping out like slow dirty tears and I'm not sure what the wading pool is going to reflect back at me.
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