Everything’s already been said.
There’s nothing left to say.
Everything’s been heard and read.
There’s nothing left today.
Everything’s been expressed so well,
I cannot say it better.
Everything I want to share,
down to the very last letter.
Smarter people than me,
with more talent, drive, and skill,
call it quits, throw in the towel,
take the poison pill.
So who the fuck am I?
What gives me the right,
to share my thoughts with you,
on this cold and lonely night?
Do I think I said it better
than those who came before?
I’m not the first to say this either,
as my words drop to the floor.
Do I just give up
with nothing more to say,
or do I say to hell with it
and go my merry way?
Then I stop and realize,
it’s not about drawing a crowd.
It’s all about the quiet things
we’re afraid to say out loud.
Poetry is about connection
‘tween your true heart and mine.
‘Cause in this busy life we live,
well, no one’s got the time.
to reach out to the broken
the lonely and depressed,
to let them know they matter,
and in knowing them, we are blessed.
So if I share a poem with you
don’t think it’s all for me,
as words spill from out my mouth
in a restaurant close to three.
My heart longs for connection
and it has right from the start.
I guess that’s the reason I write,
the reason for my art.
~ elr
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