A Poet’s Pondering
Sleep always the elusive prey,
Hiding from my consciousness,
Making the night indistinguishable from the day,
So, in the dark, I sit with friends,
The friends that never change, the ones here to stay,
My pen, the poet’s ink, and the blank page,
In the dark my soul whispers to me,
Telling me to spill ink, of love, beauty, fits of rage,
The whispers give meaning to colors, yellow, green, red and blue,
Cowardice, sickness, sadness, and love, truest true
Sleep is overrated, more to my liking, a blank page soon to bleed,
Whispers give way to voices and then to shouts,
So many, they become static, demanding life, upon my ink to feed,
Then, the poet becomes the philosopher,
Still to splash the ink, now the whispers will follow, the poet will lead,
Sitting in the dark, I ponder as poets will often do,
I think of being a man, and what it is, what it means,
So many to conform, some don’t, what of those few?
Learned from reaction, emotion is for the weak,
Societal disgust when tears form as sadness begins to accrue,
Weakness to be the companion to manly tears,
This poet ponders this…..
Is a man not just a man? To feel happiness and sadness,
Yet still to be courageous and brave in the face of all his fears,
The man who will not hide, but face the emotion,
Stand his ground, feel it, know it, conquer the tears,
Why this man? Why is his taste in the mouth of others soured?
Is he not the brave one?
Pondered and answered, the man that faces emotional life is brave, empowered,
the man that hides, pretends to not feel,
That man is the coward.
© Copyright, deVillieaux 2015
Featured Writers at “Creative Talents Unleashed Writers Group”
Photo Credit: © Donna Sanders
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