Faces I Haven't a Clue To

In a notebook or on a typed sheet
My poems are sprawled.
Hardly any eyes do these works meet,
Even less are recalled.
Though I write these for me, initially,
They're starving to be read
But when time comes for the final tally,
Their hunger goes unfed.

Under clothes or backseats of cars
My poems are laid.
Yellow, cracking, slowly being marred,
Words staying staid.
Of course, I always write for me first,
Pour for others a glass
But those I serve don't have any thirst;
Sadly, I let this pass.

If these words I labor to write
Cannot be enjoyed by each of you,
What sense is there turning on the light
For those with faces I haven't a clue to.
If these words I love to create
Will not be of interest to the few,
What reason is there to open the gate
For those whose faces I haven't a clue to.

In a hand-written book rest my words,
Blindly collecting dust.
If each speck was an eye unfurlled,
My heart would bust.
You see, though I write for self-satisfaction,
I also seek to share
But out there lurks a certain faction
That doesn't even care.

Inside a room or on an audio tape
My poems are spoken.
Narly any ears do my words drape,
Their descent forsaken.
Though I speak these for self-release,
I wish for reception
But after they've said all their peace
They plead for perception.

If these words I'm inspired to write
Cannot be enjoyed by each of you,
What sense is there turning on the light
For those with faces I haven't a clue to.
If these words I long to create
Will not be of interest to the few,
What reason is there to open the gate
For those whose faces I haven't a clue to.

Go on to Rendered Spellbound

Return to Sea of Faces table of contents

Return to A Gathering of Fiends table of contents