It's Been Too Long

It's been too long since I've posted anything because I'm so scared of having nothing to say. And in reality, I'm going to continue with that struggle. Nothing I say, it seems, matters in the grand scheme of things. But if I stay silenced, that's not doing any good, either. Here's to hoping that maybe at least some type of expression can get my by. So, for a poem, untitled:

I look at my books and I feel love.

Perhaps if it is lost, I shall look to them again.

The letters and colors blend together

Like the most beautiful compilations

Of shades on a flower petal.

My heart sings for poetry.

My fingers ache to communicate

Intricate words with tremendous meaning.

I wonder, if I were to die at 24,

Would anyone remember me as a poet,

Or even as a writer at all?

Or would I just be another American

Lost in the pursuit

Of a fancy dream that no longer exists?

The restraints are lifted,

Momentarily I wrack my brain for something

Substantial

Or nothing at all.

I can feel the chill of the rain

From my desk and the moisture

On these keys.

I don’t enjoy the shade of the clouds

With the darkening of the sky.

It makes the leaves look flat.

Is it worth it to be honored posthumously?

I guess I’ll never really answer the question,

Nor can anyone else.

I don’t admire

Every single writer the critics proclaim

to be the best voice of the country/age/genre/bullshit,

But it is the universality of expression

That makes them all at least share something.

I think it was easier to be a poet

During Romanticism,

While conditions were much worse,

Things were much simpler

And the mind had more freedom to make them complex.

Now poets try to do the opposite,

Simplify the complex.

But the simplest human endeavors

Can prove to be the most complicated

When reviewed under a microscope

Or philosophic dissection.