Poem called Questions

This artist bows their head professing altruistic ambitions claiming a desire for the creation of work for the good of the people, but what if I wasn’t so selfless?

Have you ever swept everything away on a sunny day? Leaving only warm and newly safe paved surface — to dance barefoot. Risk of gravel reduced, Drumming feet, take center stage.

Have you ever raised your arms wide up to the sky and smile brimming on your face with joy overflowing, only to look up and realize that you were all alone?

Is my practice in the doing or in the recording of artistic phenomena? Or is it in the sharing?

When I sing, can the neighbors hear me — through the tree line and across the fields? Do they brighten up hearing a song or do they cringe that the silence was overtaken by my sound?

How would this time playing and creating outside be different if I knew that someday someone would see my dance or record my song?

… … … … … .. .. .. .. . . . . . . .. .. .. … … … …

Descending into myself through my journal, the hand reflects the sound, typeface getting smaller and neater and tidier as the sound of the chaotic dance fades into the background.

But what If I want my script to be messy and take up space? Maybe even only one word on each of these notebook pages. What if I used a whole notebook for a single story?

Who taught me that there isn’t space for that and why did I believe them?

I recall how the music moves through my body when I am in motion and now in the time after song my body feels the vastness of micro-movements, imperceptible from the external view of my body. What is it that I am hiding and how could I ever sit still when there is so much movement to be felt?

My heart beats and moves the blood to transform my cells, while food is converted into energy. Is death the only stillness or can the masters really do it?

What then fills in the stillness space? If not my sound, or my movement and not death itself… I wonder…

Can the neighbors hear my voice me when I sing and the drumming of my feet when I dance?

And if they do- I hope they enjoy my imperfect sound, for without it to fill the space inside of myself, I don’t think I’d like who I become.