I’ve a confession to make. I fear I’ve not been honest with you. I’ve been prettying up my pain with prose, stealing from the poets, decorating my walls with a mirage of openness and letting you believe you know me.
In spite of my grandest desire, I am not a poem. I am a mess, an amateur graphic novel at best. Unlike the perceptions we like to paint, my failings are far from a song.
They are loveless and dark. They are selfish and harsh. They are a result of life. Alas…love has never broken me, nor has death stood upon my door step to await the arrival of my soul.
I am living, I am surviving, I am blessed. It’s a shame we thrive on the poetry of the heartbroken. There’s fantastic works to be discovered in the simplest side of life. The breath of a new day. The courage to live it.
The only person I’ve ever had to battle has been myself. The inner dialogue shameful & cruel. The only one to blame for this brokenness…is me. Imagine how boring the poetry!
My only claim to fame is perhaps the best poem ever.
I’m still here.