The pen hits paper.
Metaphorically. No one uses paper and pen anymore.
I start speaking innermost thoughts, no feelings…no,
I start painting my inner landscape outside of my body.
The sadness of one day becomes a vicarious violent jaunt across a blood red sky.
The joy of another becomes a happiness medley, a fogue of smiling bays.
Mockery comes from some edges.
Only Romantics write their feelings.
But the Confessional Poets didn’t do too bad.
And I’m not writing feelings anyway. Weren’t you listening?
Anyway who cares what the captain of the Old Guard says.
He never liked you anyway.
Well, or he never was willing to act like he did.
He isn’t here though, and there’s more to do.
Don’t think you didn’t notice the jab of missing him,
but keep on.
I have something to say.
Writing is life in a way.
Speaking, promising, like in The King’s Speech, “I HAVE A VOICE.”
Proclaiming to the world that Yes, I, me, matter.
In the great grand scheme of things.
So you continue writing
And don’t stop.
When the phantom chants to you of the Old Enmity,
Look at the blood red rose,
And breathe out.