The
poetry stands.
The
poetry will always stand.
Creativity
is the only thing that accepts me for who I am.
Another
Christmas spent alone.
I
reach out to close friends and they just ignore me.
Guess
they’re too busy with their own families to stop and see that the darkness has
swallowed me whole.
Or
maybe they just don’t care.
And
before you think I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Try and understand there is
nothing wrong with that.
I
sit down and instead of watching a movie or working on another project I just
feel hurt and I haven’t a clue what to do with this emptiness, sorrow and derision.
The
work stands.
The
work is what separates the empty screen from the writing on the wall.
Creativity
is the only God force I’ve ever believed in because it never asked me to
explain myself or found fault with my existence.
I’m
standing here. All five feet and two inches of me.
Standing
by the railroad tracks that lulled me to sleep when our self-portraits were
painted in fire and alcohol.
I’m
standing here waiting for the sun to strike me dead so I can finally live again.
Charles Cicirella
12/26/15
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