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The Voices In My Head

The Voices in My Head

I hear voices in my head
While I’m driving or in bed.
Anytime when it is still
Like sitting at my windowsill .

The voices tell me not to miss
Any of that or any of this,
Or any music going around
Or any other non-musical sound.

And always keep my eardrums pricked
For sounds that might be poetic.
And write them down so I can rhyme
Them up when I have got the time.

Sometimes I hear them in a crowd
Though it’s tough when it is loud.
I just have to listen hard.
And concentrate, not disregard.

The voices talk to me and sing.
To me it’s just the normal thing.
But to the best I can recall
Other people just don’t hear them at all.

This Poem is about “Inspiration.”  My personal inspiration are the voices I hear that point things out to me that I might have missed.  It’s a Poet thing.  We notice things that other people miss.  That is our blessing and our curse.  Sometimes we can just be doing something mundane, and all of a sudden like from Outer Space comes this sound or this thought that just makes you want to stop what you are doing and go write a poem.

A lot of times your boss doesn’t understand and you get fired.  But that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. If you have worked about eight weeks in a row, you can draw unemployment for up to six months. This gives you plenty of time to write.  Now, I have a job where I have a lot of time to myself, except for Friday and Saturday nights when it gets a little busy.  And Thursday night when the liquor truck comes.  But outside of that it is usually pretty quiet.

I wish I still had all the poems I have written over the years, but people didn’t seem to like them and that made me doubt myself.  So, I threw them away. Luckily, the voices are still here, and they whisper to me to keep writing and not to overlook what everybody else is missing.  So I sit here and sell cigarettes and beer and candy bars.  And in between the customers, I try to see the beauty that is all around us. The next time you go into a gas station or convenience store at two in the morning, the clerk just may be a Poet, who is looking for time alone with his voices.

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Categories: Poetry
  1. JBean
    March 14, 2010 at 10:23 am

    Very auditory.

  2. March 14, 2010 at 7:29 pm

    I think you are jealous because you can not write poetry like I do. All you can write is mean hurtful stuff. Maybe your “schtick” is softball. I would not tease you if you struck out.

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