Deja Vu

So much I write, I feel I've seen before--heard before.

In my head or in my eye, Is it mine? Is it mine?

I couldn't bear a stealthy thief in my mind,

Slipping silvery songs into words stolen

from monuments gold or forms of old,

or passing friends in time

I worry. Am I a Proser or a poser,

Dancing words on keyboards

tapping, snapping, hitting that word

in the corner that means

I've said it.

Aloud.

In time. Space.

In my heart, my unworthiness beckons.

But I don't listen. (Much)

There is so much to say.

(Copy, paste and go to hear my quiet rendition.) 

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B71HTYaGSCnkUWtMM25JSGtzUk0/view?usp=sharing

(A deep worry of mine.  One that threatens to stop me from writing at times.  Sorry if this is super quiet.  I almost wrote, "Ode to the Technologically Impotent."  I guess we'll see what we get! )