It shouldn’t be something
Just to get through
But a skill to take pride in
As one of the few
With a craft to be reveled in,
Relished, enjoyed
And on rarest occasion
A weapon employed
Should a dire most need
For a war of words waged
Upon those who prefer
The more literal graves
For their victims and enemies,
Childhood reveries
I bury mine
In descriptive serenities
Remedies curing me
Of morose maladies
Banal, mundane
Every day
Gray realities
Splitting dualities
Self-contradiction
Cognitive dissonant
Lawless conviction
A chaotic orderly
Misanthrope humanist
Spiritual atheist
Radical pacifist
Gifted with empathy
And equanimity
Equally balanced
In stoic disharmony
So alive
Dead inside
Cynic sanguinity
Outspoken introvert
Mortal divinity
Half full of doubt
And half empty of faith
Powerless to bring change
But I try all the same
And when shamed by a world
Torn apart
Just like me
I am wholly at peace
As I write poetry