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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Coming Out Of The Closet

Want me to write you a poem?
I do not know how.
I wrote a letter to myself,
a note of remembrance,
and someone said, “Oh a poem!”
And I ran away,
I closed the door.
I stuffed cotton in my ears.
I do not write poems, I said.
In a whisper so they couldn’t hear.
So they wouldn’t wake me
in my sleep.

And thankfully they forgot.
I hid my letters.
I carried the moon
hidden in my pocket.
I spoke in higher decibels to the birds,
I rolled the sky up like blue fabric
on hidden poles,
and lied about having no clothes.
Everything weaves itself,
they didn’t know how to gather it.
So they got over the notion
I was a poet,
and I was left in peace.

I tipped my hat to the true versifiers.
They crunched over their desks.
Read their verses at coffee houses.
Published each other in old books,
and I was glad.
We had nothing in common.
Art was their profession,
love was mine.

I hid nothing from the world
so it visited often,
and I told it,
you are incredibly good to me.
You fill my mouth,
stay with me in the dark,
talk to me in your shadows,
and someday
I’d like to be a poet.

Gather shells
and arrange them on the beach.
Call to the small things
to come and hear my tunes,
and tell everyone with beautiful eyes,
I will say a few words,
that I can never have enough of you,
who shine like rainbows
on a wet street!

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