I fear for the day, I’d be forced to stop writing poetry. When my life becomes too bland and too much like everyone else’s that I wouldn’t know what to write about, or perhaps I’ll be too tired from work and there won’t be any room for creativity or inspiration or hope, or even a room to be me.
I wouldn’t want that day to come. But as life would permit it, I see it right around the corner, waiting to pounce. That will be a dreadful day and I’d much rather die than stop writing poems that are gasps of air I breathe every now and then.
The path that I am walking is getting a whole lot narrow with every day that passes by. There is little hope and little inspiration to spare, let alone to share. Perhaps in the next five years, I’ve lose my touch and words won’t obey my commands. I’ll be lost in my own mind, trapped and maybe even gone. But I feel better when I think about all the poems I wrote. When the time comes I leave this world, and someone misses me or even thinks of me –they’ll have my poems. Pieces of me I left behind for when they come and look for me, for when they realize I’m not the person they thought I was. And maybe they’ll be surprised by how my mind works in such a dark, maybe even scary way. And I start to wonder if they’ll take the time to decipher what I meant, how I felt, and who I dedicate my poems full of all my heartaches.