This week’s entry in the collection of ramblings is going to be a little dark. Here’s your warning. Turn back if you like your poetry frilly and happy. This is not one of those poems.
I have always written in a manner that presents in-depth imagery, something burned upon the inner eye of the reader. After reading one of my stories, the mother of a high school friend who was also an English teacher asked me if I had ever thought about writing poetry.
What? I scoffed at the idea. Then an 18-wheeler loaded with 40 tons of charcoal came through the passenger door of the vehicle wherein I was the passenger. After my heart stopped twice and I spent six months learning how to function as normally as possible—not that I was even close to normal to begin with—I sank easily into depression.
Poetry became my outlet. Through the scratching of pen on paper, I learned that I could exorcize the darkness trying to rain on my sunny days. It has become quite cathartic. So, please, enjoy this poem you don’t have to pay to read. Neither do you need a Ph.D. in comparative literature to get something from it.
