I often think about the how I became a poet. All those years of reading, when nobody was nearly interested.
My father was a romantic. He could read aloud poems by Keats, Shelley and Byron. I couldn’t understand any of it, I doubt he could. But it sounded good.
I settled into a life, evoked of love and steadfast promises. And discovered Neruda and personal colours of hope.
But in life the dark mornings always come. Just listen to the coughs, and the blood stained phlegm of cancer You will know what I mean. Then I found Bukowski and began to see that being a fool is normal. And **** happens in life.
“I am a writer” he said. At least he endured trying.
So now….. I get out of bed and I write poems.
Sometimes a painful submission of words, that almost every poet thinks. But that’s normal….. at least for me.