Right

Today, I remind myself

I don’t have to be in the ‘mood’ to write

To write

I can pour out my

Musings to the

Page, which (as long as I

format properly) become

A poem.

Although I’ll spend hours

Considering commas over semi-colons;

It doesn’t have to be perfect,

Doesn’t have to be clean–in fact

There is beauty in the mess,

Just like me (thankfully).

***

I’ve been whittling down my dreams

For decades; I remember

What hope tasted like:

That bright, sunny excitement

That turned to ash in my mouth as

The earth burned around me,

An incinerant smell

As the towers fell,

As the markets crashed,

As the world shut down

And I had to adapt.

Expectations dashed,

All the things I wanted

A stunning punch to the gut,

As doors slammed shut.

***

I made myself small

So I would fit, I thought

That’s what I had to be

To be wanted,

But I was always too much

(too wild, too big)

I would break things

That were flimsy to begin

With, that white plastic

Picket fence all covered in

Thorns only left me

Torn, visible scars…

I thought I was broken,

That something was missed,

Turns out I was just

Playing along to a part

I was miscast in,

Singing the wrong

Song, as I harmonized

With the voices of doubt

In my mind,

I leave it behind.

***

So I return to my roots,

Bury my hands in dirt,

(the aroma of loam)

Plant the seeds of forgotten

Ambition, a new premonition,

Feed kaleidoscopic flowers,

Unfettered.

Because none of this matters,

Nothing is real, there is no ‘right,’

It’s all just pretend

This is a stage

So I might as well play

And retake the vision

My heart released

To keep from breaking.

The truth is,

We’re all just making

It up as we go,

So why not make it

Extraordinary?