Poem-maker,
can you make a poem
out of wallowing in silence
from the sadness
that arose from nothing?
Can you make a poem
out of the inability to get out of bed
on the weekends,
of only possessing motivation
when it is for others?
Poem-writer,
can you write a poem
about how heartbreak lingers
and never truly heals?
Can you write a poem
of lessons that should have been learned long ago
yet keep being taught
without being absorbed?
Poem-builder,
can you build a poem
of bricks of uninspiring numbness
that floods and muffles and mutes
every experience?
Can you build a poem
of concrete
with its dark, gray hue
and brutalistic shapes and lines?
Because I feel guilty
when I write these things
and don’t offer a solution,
a termination of the morose feeling
that pervades many of my waking moments.
Perhaps there’s a beauty in these moments, too,
and even if there isn’t,
they still need to be spoken.
I’m just not sure
if I’m the right one
to do the speaking.
Original photo by Alex Buretz from Pexels