I think this stage is haunted
This stage
Of our lives where we often
Stand watching our own performance
Imagining that others do, as well
I am I swear music, I live it in my blood
But my blood and my hands don’t
Swear anything at the same time
But there are ghosts
Of the spirit of the time I believed
I could create what people
Would listen enraptured to –
But no one listens —
I think this stage is haunted
.
.
.
(I got a “C” on this poem when I turned it in for my College creative writing course. In the interest of fairness to my professor, below is the poem as it was then, prior to my editing it today; you can see I edit these old pieces extensively. I am trying by the editing process to recreate the feeling I meant for the poem to convey. – Owen)
.
.
.
I think this stage is haunted,
This stage here of our lives;
I stand watching my own performance,
And might just break out in hives.
I imagine others here, with
Knowing music is in my blood;
I am (I swear) the music, but
It isn’t very good.
The ghosts are still around, of back
When I thought all this very dear:
I swear this stage is haunted,
When there is just nobody here.
