The Complaint

The single greatest pleasure

is the one you cannot measure.

To be a slave of a line

(the straight edge undefined)

is to be in an ugly system

containing its own wisdom

and rules so easy to hate.

It is a kick against fate

to be in a pattern of pain

(a routine to work again

and again, keeping you low).

This is what we know:

to write means to be;

to create is to be free.

In all crises and confusions,

we move from our decisions

to a place where the pen

and paper deny, and then

we learn that loss, pain and suffering try

(but cannot deny)

the words that escape us all

(the work that will not die).

*

Note: I wrote this in rough after a friend of mine complained about writing in the face of another tragedy (this was based on events related to a situation I won't detail here). I kept these thoughts to myself, but I think I want to share all of this now and let you have the final say...

And Mr. Hardy will also get a word in:

Thank you for reading!

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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