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Turning Pain Into Art
One day I will find the words and they will be simple
One day you asked why I’ve been sad and I didn’t think I was so I didn’t have an answer and you let the question float away like dandelion wishes on a summer breeze because you hold friendship so gentle in your hands.
But it mattered that you asked so I folded up your words and tucked them in my pocket and then like lost pennies and crumpled five dollar bills I forgot they were even there until the moon reminded me last night.
I didn’t sleep well. I had dreams. Not the once upon a dream of looking for the lion to carry me to the City safely but dreams where wolves are silent and only the moon howled and a woman carried fire in bare hands to light the darkness while a man ran miles and miles to find one good truth.
And I woke crying so I stood in the window just watching the moon and she said look in your pockets so I did and found your question so I said I will write in the morning and then I laid on the fur on the loveseat and slept.
If words don’t burn to be written, if they don’t pour out, then you shouldn’t be writing Bukowski said and I sat under the moon listening to his voice reading poetry in some broken old dive bar and hoped he was wrong.
