A Writer Who Doesn't Write
On the gift you keep promising to give yourself time for — and the slow ache of never quite getting there.
There’s a particular grief reserved for the talents we don’t use. Not because we lost them — because we kept saying later. This poem is about the pile of laters.
A writer who doesn’t write
A poet with no prose
A piano left untouched
Begging to be heard
If only there was more time
If only I were fine
Then I’d pursue my dreams
Like I used to when I was nine
Maybe I’ll find the strength
The courage to let go
What I think they might think
And why it matters so
The nine-year-old version of you didn’t need permission. The grown-up version is the one who built the permission slip and then forgot how to sign it.
The courage to let go of what they might think is the whole thing. The piano is right there. It’s been waiting.
— JTC