- A poem by Persistence and Saen. -
The lunch you had is spent on letters,
your hands employed by your creative mind.
They dig through pages in search of art,
like miners working overtime.
They chisel the tunnel with symbols black,
which, in the right order, produce ore that's
as valuable as the ingot readers make of it.
The hands blister; the fingers bleed; the mind fatigues,
but they find the ore they like through labour.
You can only hope that the pieces make a puzzle -
the one you once envisoned.
But you are still learning how to craft your masterpiece.
You accept that the reader may put together
the rough edges into a design that was
different than your perfect puzzle,
knowing that you will learn to love
the creation that they have helped you make.
We love our children: we give birth to them;
we nurture them; we raise them.
And we want them to be well liked
and talked about in a positive light.
Although you can't control how it sees them,
is it wrong to want to see the world embrace them?
Your words are the children of your mind.
It's only natural to want them see success.
You are told to write for yourself
so it doesn't hurt when your creation is forgotten.
But a dancer does not spend hours rehearsing
to perform in front of an empty theater.
They expect an audience to watch wide-eyed
as they piroutte and twirl across the stage,
and to loudly applaud when the curtain falls.
After a tired and lonely battle,
a soldier wants to go back home.
Then, someone says the battle never happened,
and so the soldier fights another and another,
tactics more intricate each passing time,
in hopes that their struggles will be recognized.
Is it wrong to want your sacrifice acknowledged?
Like a fairy tale hero, it began as nothing.
Then the idea came - a mentor to guide its way.
Hurdle after hurdle strengthened it,
allowing it to become the best version of itself.
But with no princess to save, your creation falls flat.
Your little farm boy became a hero
that can never get a happy ending.