the mundanity of profundity

i find myself amused

(and somewhat embarrassed)

when others think my writing

amazing or profound or great

or any other laudatory adjective

honestly i don’t understand

because to me it’s just writing

it’s like breathing

agonizingly setting my heart

down on paper

everyone was created with a heart

everyone is a soul

in possession of a body

so everyone has dreams

aches sometimes

laughs in amazement

and perfect joy beyond happiness

i suppose the difference

is that i feel compelled to record

my valleys and mountains

and fountains

therefore, words being my paint

my negative developed in the dark

i write

i wish i could read or

see or hear sung

the inside thoughts worked outside

of all the beautiful people

there are in the world

beautiful not meaning

the acclaimed icons of the day

but the images of God

in every colour

i’m no different in profundity

words just leak out

between the seams that hold me


i am not a concert pianist

but i plunk away happily

i will never sing an aria

yet my heart soars

even with gravelly harmonies

likewise i am no shakespeare

i content myself with glimmers

of brilliance

celebrating mundane and holy