All the poems from my youth
The whining, bitter odes to night
Were products of neglect
Caricatures of childish fright
It’s been years since I last wrote
Gently gnawed the flesh of rhyme
Yet my heart still sings in rhythm
I still fret from time to time
So I take this pen to paper
How I’ve missed these screaming hands
I no longer crave perfection
Nor for someone to understand
I am a fly with the swatter
A fish who wields the rod
I thought this door had closed
But now I simply turn the knob
I have made my choice to fight
My muse, my shining blade
How I’ve missed these screaming words
That happiness forbade
I still sing and I still fret
I have not slain my demons yet
They still lurk around the corner
However, I am now content
I have made my choice to write
Though not at prosperity’s death
I have learned that a beautiful day
Is worthy of my pen’s breath.
