Sweltering in summer
The tide of August rolling in
Like a dream without the isolation of sleep,
And it’s easy to begin
Reflecting on the way things were
And how they’ve come to be.
I used to pour my pain on paper
And call it poetry.
But something crucial I’ve come to learn is this,
That sad eyes in a happy face aren’t poetic.
It’s
Tragic.
I let myself drown in other people,
sucked down and shivering in the brine.
Clutching at any liferaft
if only a bottle of wine.
When I found the strength to save myself,
Learned to keep her dry and warm,
I set my poems to the side, unsure how to create from blue skies without the melodrama of a storm.
But today I’ve begun to wonder why I never wrote
The poetry I felt wrapped up in thoughts of you.
For where could I have found more art
Than in a love to come home to?