I, sometimes, think I ought to give up
sitting at the keyboard, writing poetry
You know writing doesn’t come as easy
as folding clothes or iron-pressing them
But it is not a chore. Even if writing one’s
thoughts can lay you bare, with no masquerade
of masks, no diatribe of disguise to protect you
from the evil that wants to abduct everything that
you call upon. So you must use a double-edged sword
in battle to protect yourself, with the cruelty of
anger also befalling on the ones who care for you. You know
how stupefyingly stupid that sounds in the stream of
thoughts that make you suddenly alien from what you were
just the moment before. But yes, what are love and hate? What is
laughter, mockery and rage that you bestow on yourself and
the ones you love for your own preservation and the ones you
love, even if it causes you so much pain? Is pain a gift of love?
I promise you, the pain is only a gift of love out of an over-imposing cruel
predicament! What would Mother of Love do in such a conundrum?
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