Realized yesterday I hadn’t written a poem in days and that’s what was causing this blahness.
Creativity is the helping hand that pulls me out of my own wreckage and doesn’t believe in collateral damage, but does believe in second chances.
Creativity is the only Godhead I pray to on a reoccurring basis.
And people let you down because they’re people.
And people let you down because they owe you absolutely nothing.
And too many people will stab you in the back while smiling to your face and offering you niblets of empty encouragement.
Some people will never amount to anything especially when the sum of their parts are in another mass grave where people drank the Kool-Aid because it was easier than listening to their own hearts and brains.
And realizations don’t dampen the hurt, but it does make it easier to remember that you are a survivor and were never actually a victim no matter what the cave drawings depict and the writings on the wall state so explicitly.
Picked up a dictionary and hit myself in the face to remind myself how much words can hurt when not used correctly.
I am an incorrect poet and if you don’t like it jump out of the car right now before I hit the gas and your chances of a speedy recovery go up in a purple haze of car exhaust and rusted out excuses.
I am an incorrect poet and creativity will deliver me to the Promise Land come hell or high water.
It’s time to rise again and realize we’re the chosen when we choose right over might and start believing in ourselves again.