There was a bag of joy, carried on my shoulders.
Flied with it, we sailed.
Somehow it grew heavy, mixed with judgement and self criticism,
filled with fear, doubt, expectations of the world the fame the wealth and the reputation.
It is a spot light went dimmed.
Like an over indulged addiction, it drooped.
Treasured as marvelous jewel, I held it close to my chest; hard to breath.
Heavy as a ton of gold, I wore it as a crown; never to look up again.
My bag of joy is now a wagon loaded with resentment.
Pushed, I trekked the dry spell of truth.
Dragged, I crawled through the desert of sorries.
I no longer talked to my art,
I no longer listen to my heart.
It's time to leave, it's time to shut.
Shut the fabricated sense of world,
shut the pretended story of me.
When it no longer chatters, I hear the sound of pure honesty,
what it was
between Sandy and his piano,
between me and my art.
If I don't hear this conversation,
who is to listen to it.
inspired by Sandy Owen's interview on Between the Lines with Barry Kibrick, Sat. 01/15