When I’m sad, I write poetry.
I, not a poet, love poetry.
It needn’t be sad,
Sometimes it’s happy or mad,
Not always tethered to the gloom,
But a garden, where flowers bloom.
When I’m sad, I write poetry,
Though it’s not my forte.
I much prefer a journal or essay,
Sited, researched arguments to convey,
Or, perhaps, novels and books,
Where readers love even the crooks.
When I’m sad, I write poetry.
It isn’t art, not entirely.
Shunned by the museum and library,
I can't blame them, dreams are all I carry.
Yet, unseen by crowds, untouched by fame,
Poetry softly whispers my name.
When I’m sad, I write poetry,
Where I have no need to refrain.
Writing odes and elegies in someone’s memory,
Then, a limerick or two, to lighten the mood,
Or a sonnet, full of feelings to allude,
Yet I most often escape into free verse,
Where I have no need to refrain.
When I’m sad, I write poetry,
And, through poetry, I am free.
When sadness knocks and I cannot sleep,
When voices from the recess creep,
The rhythm and rhyme express,
A melody, no books possess.
Metaphors and similes are but a sacred remedy,
Healing wounds hidden deep inside of me.
When I’m sad I write poetry,
And poetry writes me,
For only through poetry do I remember,
What, who, why I am.
It is the structure of form and prose,
On which I climb from melancholy's abyss,
Ready to face whatever life throws,
I rise from the ink, alive with poetry’s bliss.
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Lou.Summers 