James W.A.
Apr 7, 2024
I wouldn’t say that my heart is closed,
more that it’s down for maintenance,
like a server three versions behind,
like a broken sign heralding an event long past,
like a urinal the world took a shit in
that now has to be cleaned thoroughly before
it could ever be used again,
if it ever can be used again
or perhaps I was used too many times,
dreamed too many dreams,
wrote too many rhymes
for those who had no love for poetry
and not enough
for me.
I wouldn’t say that I’m hopeless or undeserving
or worth less than anyone else,
but that there is strength in stoicism:
lighthouses don’t complain about unhappiness,
they shine, guide no matter the season,
no matter how many sailors offer prayers of gratitude
laced with pity before walking inland,
away.
The solitary, gnarled tree at the top of the hill
bears the sweetest fruit no matter the reason
satiated families toss the pits as they climb down or
why it generously grows, its roots firm in the earth
so shall I walk the earth tall, alive, alone,
lonely and
perfectly fine, no, proud,
proud of my dreams, proud of my rhymes,
proud of all the lies I’ll tell,
to whoever listens and whoever does not,
whoever consoles,
whoever ignores,
whoever, if ever,
looks at the “down for maintenance” sign on my heart,
knocks softly
and replies to the silence,
“It’s a shame that they’re closed,
this looks like a lovely place to be.”
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