My Solace

when every aperture is a tunnel narrowing,
a light pin diminishing when nearing,

when the desk drawer yields up unused theater tickets,
for performances concluded yesterday,

when the denouement is nothing new but worse,
revealed in the coming attractions trailer,

when the rusted unborn poem notion is almost done,
but remains unpublished,
for no beginning, no title, can be found,

Then I recall the cornucopia days,
when poems spilled forth like
there would never be a when they wouldn't,

I revisit my old friends, couplets, twins and triplets,
seeded inside every tear, happy or sad,
sweetly and freely,

my old friends, reread,
words rearranged in new combinations,
old poems, plants bearing new fruits,
re-titled all of them, one name,
a collection entitled,
My Solace.

When Summer's heat
gives way to
autumns bliss,
I will kiss this
world goodbye
and walk to
the woods
to save
the last sliver
of my humanity,
where the creek
meets the river of
my destiny.
Far away from
the ****** city of
sick Streets
and broken
dreams.

Poetry is a hard life. Writing is a hard life. Art, in any way, shape or form is a hard life. But we do it because we feel it in our souls. We might not necessarily be good at it. It might not be able to earn us a living, and all the words in our heart may threaten to tear us apart, or to overflow and drown the world. It may seem like too much of a burden, to have the power of the pen, to feel like you're drifting out on an ocean of emotions that flicker so quickly past you don't have time to grasp it and put it on paper, thoughts and feelings too beautiful to ever be captured by words. And so many times we want to walk away, to stop, to give up. But I think what makes it worth it isn't the result. It doesn't matter what happens in the end. Whether the words are clumsy or not. Whether anybody publishes it or not. Whether or not anyone else approves, even. It doesn't matter in the end. What matters is the journey. And honestly, for people like us? The journey itself is enough.

I’ll play the bad guy if it’s what you want,
shine the light at me in a way that portrays me with horns,
let the shadow deceive the others.
But still, like the spotlight, I’ll shine.

Just like a false spring,
you’ll portray me as colder than ever,
Just like summer,
I’ll come to rise.

Tell them I’m like a rose,
whose only intention is to draw in to hurt.
Tell them my thorns,
my thorns ***** worser than the rest.  
Tell them who sharpened the thorns.

With the bud coming out,
I’ll sprout
up from the forgotten soil,
I’ll vegetate.

I will grow,
Because I’m meant to grow.
I will wilt,
because I’m meant to wilt.