As I stare again at the blank blog screen
and post for the thousandth time,
I wonder what I should make it mean?
What sort of message deep and sublime
should flow?
Where should I go?
(Or should I even rhyme?)

In two years I’ve written
romantic poetry;
complaints about people.
Thoughts revolutionary.

I’ve taken a thought
and tried to cram it
like hot metal wrought
into a form iambic.

Or sometimes it’d do
to raise words like winter’s first
crocus: write haiku.

Or a slant
rant.
No rhyme.
Angered words
rage,
spewed forth
on a slam’s
stage.

Dark.
Beat.
Black.

Words captured snowflakes.
Rain.
Sunbeams.
Osprey.
Curry.
Blondes.
Children, parents, family.

Social situations that seem so complex as to defy all logic yet somehow sometimes I’m able to laser-clearly see and cut through all the crap and dross and rhetoric and just
explain.

All these have been written about.
All these forms were used.
And I am, this early Friday morning,
tired.
Not thinking as sharply
as I have.
As I could.

But I want to finish.
Want to post.
Want to pass that milestone,
and maybe boast
a little.

Those who have read
know I write, often,
of love.
Usually unrequited.
Sometimes fulfilled.
Often wah wah wah
as when I started this journey
five years ago.

(She
who inspired me
won’t even know.
She never thought I’d go
this far.)

I thought I might
write
again
of that love,
and thank all the muses.
But I won’t.
They’ve received their thanks
(when they’ve recognized it was for them
the words flowed).

Love
is
what I’ll,
at last,
write of.

Love and gratitude.
Though some may not approve,
to me,
He exists:
My Father.

He lit the fire.
He gave me belief.
Courage.
Conviction.
Strength.
Inspiration.

He opened my eyes
to see,
again,
a world fantastic
beyond measure;
a world I’d always seen,
but never chronicled.

But then
He gave me pen,
and said “Dream.
And write your dreams.”

And I have.

And my heart has pumped blood onto the page.
And my mind has seen visions I never imagined.
And my soul has been twisted and shaped and opened and moved and grown in ways painful and strange and wonderous and wonderful and fulfilling.

And I am grateful.

I’ve posted one thousand poems.
Now I am going to go shower.