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.
Charles Cicirella
4/5/2016
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