If I ever had writer’s block you would see me dead
at some corner in a bar with your typical
bottle of Jack and burnt notebooks. I swear
if I lost the ability to think through poetry
and write about my ripped up demons,
my past haunts, my future encounters,
then I would be dead inside for sure.
I can barely breathe now with how
real life sucks up my soul in conference
meetings, evaluation of employees,
frustrated children, parents who
neglect, my faults piling up
as I see how awful I could be
when confronted with life,
car crashes, headaches, aging,
poems pouring out like coffee
from a pot.
I took a class at Concordia
called The Renaissance
the History professor
proved that all these statues
had a story, all these white perfect
Roman gods had the same life
as the Greeks, changed a name
deleted a column, added an arc
and revived humanity.
If only I could do the same with poetry
make it my battle
rebirth
to the art that few protect.
Grab your pen
paper
raw words
and create
a new renaissance.
What else is there to do
except your nails? or your hair?
or your membership at the gym
needs renewal,
don’t forget to post pictures
of you and hubby at so-so restaurant
yes, I’ll be over here,
writing poems
and showing you my heartache.
You never knew I could write.
I know.
You thought I was just another wife,
but you saw it in my eyes.
You told me that once
I remember everything.
