There is no burden like unwanted things. Which is sad because, against all real evidence, things have feelings too. They don’t love in the human way, still:
That blue thrift shop sweater out at the elbows has a story. I try to imagine the places it has been, and who wore it before it was mine.
Those rundown cowboy boots slouched in the closet talk in accents from the Old West. I stare at them appreciating all the wrong roads they may have taken. Usually, I find a song in them.
Pale-portrait faces stored in the attic gaze sadly at each other, old, tattered books think softly to themselves in between readings, and under its yellow blanket, the whittled-down pencil dreams of writing again.
Not one of these things transcends its thingness; the artist who connects with them becomes all these things.
They become a part of my inheritance as a songwriter. Forsaken, they now take me in their arms.
I love this Tony! I want to use this as a prompt in my writing group and use your poem as an example. It really sings.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Well, aren’t you wonderful! Thank you, very much.
LikeLiked by 1 person
My mother and I have had this feeling too. Its why we value and cherish those things we take into our home. I still cherish the worn and battered copy of A Wrinkle in Time from when I was too young to read that my mother read to me when I was still to little to understand.
A gorgeous capturing of a simple but deeply personal realization, great job!
LikeLike
Thank you for sharing such a precious moment with me.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I love your writing … so full of emotion and depth. Beautiful.
LikeLike
that’s really kind, thank you!
LikeLike
No … not kind at all …. I know a good thing when I see it!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I don’t think one’s voice matters. Dylan. Springsteen and. Others can’t sing but they can write good songs.
LikeLike
I completely agree… a voice is more than the tone it creates, it’s the lives it touches.
LikeLike