YOU

Forgive me, readers, for I have sinned:
Forgot about you when I opened my notebook. 
Dismissed you when I held up the pen.
Denounced you when I spoke words of love and hate and power and distress. 

You were there all along, 
But I didn't see you.
You were the fly on the wall of my words 
And I didn't hear you buzzing.
You knocked on the door to my heart
And I was too busy piling armor upon armor on it. 
And now what good is it to see clearly? 
When the damage is done and the hearts are broken.
When the words have gone and the curtain has fallen.
When the notebook is filled but no words have been spoken. 

I didn't mean to forget about you, readers
But I did.
I didn't mean to dismiss you readers, 
But I did.
I didn't mean to denounce you readers,
But I did. 

What good is a poet without poems?
What good is a reader without words
   Or an artist without paint
      Or an actor without action
         Or a shoemaker without shoes
            Or a musician without notes
                Or a dreamer without a dream
                    Or a confessional without a priest

Forgive me readers, for I have sinned:
Thinking I was writing for ME
when all along, 
I was writing for YOU.