Where Do the Quiet Go?

Musing against an overwhelming madness, a ceaseless downbeat blocks my pen. I try and nothing, nothing, nothing, thus I relent to slumber. Is it possible for creativity to flow without this ache? To feel deeply sometimes is not to function. I often shy away. I envy those that face the shining world, that climb the peaks and write their memoirs. Still, there are reasons to be common. In the end, the limelight distorts charisma and the vanity it creates becomes a frightening thing. The most powerful poetry I ever read was never meant to be sold or even spoken, a tiny scribble in a lipstick box--the words--"Will I be forgotten?" Placed upon a re-sale shelf, the grey box lid lay open. A sliver torn from a legal pad lay inside. Discovering it was like the first time I heard Nina Simone sing "Take Me To the Water", I gasped and froze. How could such a message have been misplaced? So many quiet voices go unheard for they haven't the desire for pomp or worship. They choose to keep their gifts just close enough to never be stolen or exploited. Though I'll never know who wrote that note, for me, its power was in its obscurity. Whether its author is here or gone, one thing is for sure, their words will never be forgotten.