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Poetry in Black and White

~ Life's cares in words and art…

Poetry in Black and White

Tag Archives: melancholy

Those Were the Days…

09 Monday Apr 2018

Posted by Michael Ray King in Poetry

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

melancholy, remenisce

I remember as a wee lad I would build forts and houses in the great outdoors of our back yard. I constructed them of big boxes at first. “Big tended to be relative to my size, of course.

I quickly found the durability of such abodes to be somewhat suspect. I graduated to wood by using an old wooden gate over the corner of our chain link fence and wedged into the base of our largest Lombardi Poplar. This arrangement worked well as I had an upstairs deck on top of the gate and a downstairs below.

I even came across some old carpeting for the downstairs and built walls attached to the fence out of boxes. I carpeted the top of the gate as well so as to keep in heat in the colder months as this all happened in late autumn in West Virginia.

I’ll never forget running up to the railroad tracks and collecting coal that had fallen off passing trains. We lived four houses down from the tracks. The intention was to burn the coal for heat. After all, I’d watched my father cook hamburgers using charcoal. Coal is coal, right?

The lack of a heat source did not serve as my only disappointment. No matter how many matches I used, I simply could not get that coal to heat up. Rain became the larger nemesis.

One gloomy day, I spent quite a while shoring up all the leaks and drips in my little mansion. The effort felt gallant, yet nothing I did corrected the construction issues. The sound of the raindrops, incessant and unforgiving, stuck with me my entire life. Even now, over fifty years later, I can listen to the rain and feel the hopelessness.

This night, as rain cascades from the sky, off the roof, and splashes into puddles, I feel the forlorn truth of temporal life. Strange that I felt this so young. I felt the impermanence of everything. I felt the truth that none of us would get out alive.

Of course, I did not know much of death and the end of things. For much of my life I believed many things would always be there. Like pay phones. Bottle caps on soft drinks. Forget 8-tracks, I thought cassettes would be around forever as well as albums and even CD’s. And whatever happened to canned blueberries in the grocery stores?

But I digress. So many things I cherished and loved turned out to be temporary. My little mansions, my collectables, my relationships. The very lives of people I loved. Not simply stolen by death, but some whose memories got ravaged by age.

I thought Bradbury and Asimov and Heinlein would always chuck out an endless supply of heart-thrilling scifi. I thought Monty Python would be there forever to make me laugh and smile as well as Benny Hill. I thought Sophia Loren would remain a picturesque goddess forever. I thought my youth would never die.

I once even believed I would find the answers. The answers to the big questions. Little did I realize the big questions would not only never be answered, for the most part, I never asked the biggest ones until age taught me how. Now I wonder at how I could ever have thought that I knew anything of life.

Rolling thunder. Lightning flashes. Rain. My youth. My Spirit. My life. Linking what remains of my future to a more realistic life view not only becomes important but necessary. Positive thought processes and a retraining of my mind does not portend to be a simple undertaking. et, the only way to move forward and achieve my goals is to solve the riddle of negativity which at times prevents me from stepping into my truth and my best destiny.

I should be sleeping. My midnight muse keeps tugging at my heart. Time for a poem before sleep…

Those Were the Days

Autumn leaves piled high for jumping
Chasing. Running. Hearts a-pumping.
At no time would my world change
Yet now life appears so very strange.

People aren’t as good as they seem
Existence lost its youthful sheen
Dreams no longer feel just out of hand
Not from the view, not where I stand.

Yet good things come to those who strive
A sense of purpose, staying alive
Age defines only the mindset we allow
No retreat in life, only here and now.

Tomorrow’s numbers has shrunk one more day
I call my dreams to lock in and stay
Though altered a bit from their once lofty perch
I continue to strive, forsake not the search.

For we’re all living the truths we concede
But I pursue the one’s I believe
I stroll my path a single man, alone
Not my original vision, not the tone.

I’ll continue my trek through the older of days
I’ll shrug of indifference, apathy, dismay
My words will carry me home to my world
Whence legacy and memory will then be unfurled.

I write.
I seek.
I grow.
I learn.

One day I’ll know. I’ll see. I’ll discern.

For now let’s simply walk and enjoy our lives
Yes, let’s do this, you, dear reader and I.

 

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If You’re Goin’ My Way

08 Monday Jan 2018

Posted by Michael Ray King in Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

life, love, melancholy, sadness

If You’re Goin’ My Way…

I remember the leaves of spring
Each vibrant
Fresh
Alive and lush
Overrun with promise
Sprouting to blot out the bareness of winter
Precious
Soft
Beautiful

I remember the skips and jumps
Exuberant
Vital
Full of spunk and vigor
The promise of a coming day could wait for the thrill of the now
Warm breezes, swirling bodies and minds
Curious
Adventurous
Galant

I remember the songs. The songs.
Heartbreaking and heartwarming
New and important
Futures passed and presents gilded
Nothing would end for the world was right and true
Ambition
Time
Conqueror

I remember the colors of the living
Each shade
Hues
Palates spotted with challenges
Promises made and broken
Draining in intensities and darknesses
Responsible
Dedicated
Stalwart

I remember the lives of yesteryear
Each so dear
Critical
Tapestries of legacy
Overrun by melancholy
Bare trees adorned in stark grays, ice, snow
Truth
Realization
Inevitability

I have a dream
A dream to last a million years
A heart to beat to its own music
A passion to believe
A sadness to coincide with the waxings and wanings of life
A broken soul to mend throughout time itself
A tear for love which should have been
But not for this life
Not for me
Yet I do have a dream
I carry it with me and refuse to keep it hid

If you’re goin’ my way…

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Running Out

27 Monday Jun 2016

Posted by Michael Ray King in Poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

lost love, melancholy, sadness

Moonshot 1My time’s run out
Seconds tick. May as well stretch the hours
into torment and Hell’s internal voices.
I pick my feet up and plod them down alternately…

My love’s run out.
Kisses may as well be sighs
into loneliness, despair, tears of emotional destruction.
I push this paper here, that one there…

My dream’s run out.
Myriad sparkles of forever may as well be a second,
ticking Chinese time-torture on my heart
I lift my drink, taste the nothingness of life, and set it down…

My pain’s run out.
Screaming particles of emotional agony which may as well be a gulfstream tsunami,
Flowing in ever expanding destruction to cover my world.
I grasp the toggle between my forefinger and thumb and flip the switch…

From the upcoming novel by Michael Ray King, “Deja vu: Into the Abyss”

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Points of View

12 Friday Apr 2013

Posted by Michael Ray King in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

first person, heart, heart poem, life, love, melancholy, NaPoWriMo, poem, POV, second person, third person

I write every day anyway, you know? So why is writing a poem a day so challenging? Is it the discipline aspect rearing its creativity-gnarling havoc? I cannot figure it out, but the truth is, poetry does not come “on demand” for me too easily.

At times, I admit, I get on a roll and chuck ’em out fairly consistent. Then I hit dry spells. I hit one a few days ago, wrote a poem in five minutes after 11pm, and got quite a bit of positive feedback on it. So much for critiquing the muse…

Today is a good day. Today is a great day for differing points of view – literally. Yes, I’ve decided to write a poem off a writing prompt. The prompt is to write a poem on one subject, three ways. I’ll modify that to one subject, three different POV’s (points of view). I will use first person, second person, and third person. Sounds like fun…

First Point of View

Emptiness surrounds my soul from the inside out
Filling, but not filling, as emptiness holds nothing
Yet hollow corpses of victories to be won
Feel heavy as the heart overrun by space.

I flee to writing, children, hope
My inner cadence risen from ashes to plodding beats
Fears tickle and trickle through cavern emotions
Distraction from nothing my impossible task.

I look to my breath, my songs, my loves,
Replete in their truth, their promise, their comfort
I know the trek to smiles and to health
Lie quiet in my heart saying this too shall pass…

Second Point of View

Emptiness surrounds your soul from the inside out
Filling, but not filling, as emptiness holds nothing
Yet hollow corpses of victories to be won
Feel heavy as the heart overrun by space.

You flee to writing, children, hope
Your inner cadence risen from ashes to plodding beats
Fears tickle and trickle through cavern emotions
Distraction from nothing your impossible task.

You look to your breath, your songs, your loves,
Replete in their truth, their promise, their comfort
You know the trek to smiles and to health
Lie quiet in your heart saying this too shall pass…

Third Point of View

Emptiness surrounds his soul from the inside out
Filling, but not filling, as emptiness holds nothing
Yet hollow corpses of victories to be won
Feel heavy as the heart overrun by space.

He flees to writing, children, hope
His inner cadence risen from ashes to plodding beats
Fears tickle and trickle through cavern emotions
Distraction from nothing his impossible task.

He looks to his breath, his songs, his loves,
Replete in their truth, their promise, their comfort
He knows the trek to smiles and to health
Lie quiet in his heart, saying this too shall pass…

So, which POV do you like? None? Get outta here! Seriously, if you have a preference, please note it below. It only took me until 8pm to get this done. I started this morning.

No, I did not sit here for hours trying to write. I went off doing other tasks. This just came to me when I read the prompt. This writing off the cuff thing is quite…invigorating!

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Wintertime Dream…

27 Wednesday Feb 2013

Posted by Michael Ray King in Poetry, Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

dream, heart, heart poem, love, love poem, melancholy, morning poem, passion, peace, poem, poetry, sadness, self-reflection, winter, wintertime, writer's mind, writing, writing poetry

????????????????????????????????????????A very wise and gentle lady told me today the following, “Write… yes. I’ve started to feel with an urgency that we need to write down our feelings/thoughts or they’ll just slip away into nothingness. Same for dreams. It has to all amount to something more than just this moment – our struggles that is.”

This blog, Poetry in Black and White, is where I do just that – I write down my feelings and thoughts before they truly slip away into nothingness. This morning I awoke to one of those dreams you feel for a while after you awake. This one I wanted to cling to indefinitely, but alas, dreams never seem to allow that, do they?

When the dream won’t stick around, poetry is the next best thing to being there – at least in my opinion. A writer can capture a moment in time when everything in life felt perfect…

Wintertime Dream

Love slipped into a winter dream,
We danced and laughed and kissed it seemed
As though reality blurred a moment in time
Allowing touch, peace, song and rhyme.

Love slipped into my deepest sleep,
Ever warm and gentle and soft and sweet
As though a bridge to mend my heart
Connecting my soul so tears depart.

Love slipped into my waking moments,
Enchanted. Surreal. Devoid of torments
As though all of life lead to this dream
Engaging happy, joyful, serene.

Love slipped away as moments elapsed,
Coalesced and decayed in minutes collapsed
As though memories were all we ever attain
Promising but dreams and whimsies again.

Love slips often into my heart,
Silken and flowered – never tart
As though whispering its forever return
Quelling fears of loneliness and concern.

Love slipped into a winter dream,
We danced and laughed and kissed it seemed…

****

As is usually the case on this blog, the poem is unedited and a bit “raw”. Feel free to point out any typos or edit suggestions. I only write rhyming poetry about 25% of the time (if that much), but this one just “felt” like it should have some meter and rhyme…

The actual dream here was me dancing with Karen Carpenter. Funny how dreams work. I left my music on overnight and a Carpenters’ tune greeted me in the early hours of morning. I’ve always been drawn to her incredible voice as well as the tremendous songs she sang. This was a “waking” dream, right on that cusp of consciousness and sleep.

The entire experience felt warm, and loving and real. In the dream I spoke to Karen a number of times, but when I told her who first introduced me to her (my oldest sister), the spell was broken and sadness washed over me because I realized reality was on its way.

Of course I clung to the fading dream as long as possible, but awareness of my surroundings flooded in way too soon. Within an hour, I searched out Bridge Over Trouble Water by Simon and Garfunkel. I needed that song, because what I experienced those few moments of the dream (who knows how long they actually last in “real” time?) has been denied me in this life.

But that’s a poem for another day…

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Midnight Winds

11 Sunday Nov 2012

Posted by Michael Ray King in Poetry

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Tags

heart, heart poem, ideals, life, love, love poem, melancholy, midnight, passion, passionate, writer's mind, writing, writing poetry

Hope once rode astride midnight winds
Chariot breezes quelled some fears
Blackened swirls the indigo emotions of bleak of night
Yet refuge to weary hearts

Midnight moons peered into lonely hearts
Always there to comfort the soul
Where do midnight winds find destination?
What becomes of one left only the cold of night?

Compass-less, adrift without a push
Absent winds bought by passionate memory
Love does stand the tests of time
Believe it…believe it…believe it…

Midnight winds never fail to stir
Midnight bookmarks to hope and life
Once quickened from despair
Can never fall stricken into forgetfulness

Having stood under those late night moons
Soaked in their salving breezes
Connected over time, space, culture, ideals
Invariably leads eggshell footsteps back…
in hope….

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Morning Poem – Day Five

26 Friday Oct 2012

Posted by Michael Ray King in The Morning Poem

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Tags

alliteration, despondency, despondent, heart, melancholy, morning poem, peace, poem, poetry, self-reflection, writer's mind, writing, writing poetry

Trifecta Friday!

I couldn’t write “short” poems today. I do have three though, and I will move forward wtih them. I should save a couple for the coming days as it will be difficult to get to Wifi, but I’m going to be optimistic about my chances. Today’s poems:

Reality Bites

Despondency beyond the scope to cope.
No power holds back tears
No ability moves life forward
No chance slips back the tentacles of time
No hope survives cruelty
No strength musters for death.

When the tears come, what do you do?
Sit there a salt-water-scarred shell
Bearing the weight of the reality of
“It’s over” – two incredibly cruel words that must utter forth from your heart

The Simple Answer

She strolls with you down strands of golden beaches
She winks a sultry eye in chance encounters
She communicates in crisis times
She laughs freely and deep surrounded by quiet romance

She swims your heart, a buxom mermaid
She warms you with a soft voice
She embraces a good man with fervor
She does not exist.

How May I Stay Here?

Sunlight. Sade and Lover’s Rock
Crisp autumn mornings and hope
Warm memories to be made
Walks down leaf littered paths

Air of November peeks around the corner
Wistful thoughts of snowflakes and hot chocolate
Music paints comfort in my soul
Peace settles into smiles past, present, and future.

Knowledge – remain in memory making
Not succumb solely to memory taking
Sets sail to tiny boats of hope
Who find port in my heart

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Explorations

05 Friday Oct 2012

Posted by Michael Ray King in Poetry

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

exploration, heart, love poem, melancholy, memories, passionate, poem, poetry, psyche, self-reflection, writer's mind, writing

Words are interesting critters. You key them (or write them) to convey emotion. Some people key (or write) to analyze. The trick here is to acquire a base to understand the difference. Too many times people take passionate words written to explore the depths of an issue and make them into some clinically definable slot devoid of the intended reach.

Then there’s the folk who look at depth of emotion expressed as something to fear or feel bad about. When an emotive writer exorcises what lies deep within, these good-intentioned people look at the words as something bad or something to wring hands over with tremendous concern. This occurs most often in the folk who have no capacity to understand what it is to feel on those levels. They fear the emotions so much, they work hard to convince the poor writer he should not be so hard on himself.

Writing expressed for public consumption most often finds the public eye because the writer wanted to address a topic for others’ information or well-being. Yes, there can be pain attached. Yes, there can be recriminations that appear unpleasant, but to cover these truths up serves no one. To censor writing is to take away the very value the writer intended in the first place.

Yes, agree, disagree with the writer all you wish, but ask him not to be so hard on himself or the situation is tantamount to asking the great explorers of history to sit home and live off a stipend. When writers grow to the point they “write it real” and expose themselves in the process, this is no act of someone weak who cannot bear the weight of the words. Quite the contrary. I believe the person who asks the writer to back off possesses strength issues for the most part.

Many writers work hard to produce their best writing. Many, like myself, are not pleased with the bulk of their production. Why? Not necessarily because the writing itself is worthless or suspect, but because the writing does not come close to where they know they can be. My best books still await me. I know this. I only hope I live long enough to create them.

Poetry has become my haven for writing because I feel a freedom to explore and expand. To drill and to soar. To laugh and to weep. Isn’t that the human experience? Why write anything short of powerful no matter which style of writing is called for? Just because the topic is disturbing, is that any reason not to delve into the subject matter with a full-inner-body dive? I say there is no good reason for backing off introspection.

Someone’s gotta write what’s on their heart and soul. Does that mean the writing is definitive? Does that mean the writing is gospel truth? No. Dash that. What it means is the writer dug in and took a look at something on a profoundly personal level and passed it on to others so they might explore their hearts and souls.

The writing will resonate with some, repel others. Both outcomes are good and proper. Just don’t ask the writer to lighten up. Trust and believe the writing itself offers much therapeutic value if you’re that concerned. Better to trust the writer on the trip, ride with him, and take a peek at what may be lurking in your own heart of hearts.

Right?

Right.

Explorations

See me? The little boy peering into his past?
Tracking, trailing, sleuthing.
Watch memories drift slowly to awareness.
Marvels, they are, twinkling in and out of consciousness.

Horrors. Humiliations. Tumultuous times.
Sneak a peek – if you dare.
Observe cruelties large and small
Wonder at how the human spirit perpetuates itself.

Elations. Passions. Pleasant reveries.
Kindnesses pressed in lesser numbers
Each treasured in their circumstance
Magnified by their age.

We pass through so many thrills and trials.
Equations swirl outside us in their mathematical universe.
Intricacies intertwine emotional bands
Weaving a world of limited order, maximized chaos.

Who’s weak and who’s strong?
Mathematicians flee the emotional realm, analytics fail their masters
Empaths recoil from cold, calculated existence, their strengths nullified
The answer lies in where you stand…

See me, flipping deft through my past?
Too many cannot bear to go.
Too many deny any hint of strength and power.
I know where I stand…

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Learning to Dance the Rhythms

18 Tuesday Sep 2012

Posted by Michael Ray King in Poetry, The Morning Notepad

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

1000 words, comic relief, dance, life, melancholy, music, passion, poem, poetry, rhythm, sanity, self-reflection, time, writer's mind, writing, writing poetry

Sometimes words and phrases build up in your head and demand to jump forth into your writing world. I have not been free to write the past couple weeks due to obligations and distractions. Periods such as this wears on me.

I must write. Yes, I do write over 1000 words each day, but I speak more of the purposeful, heart driven, soul baring, creative writing that manifests from places I can only explore and never truly know. These moments this morning, stolen from an overwhelmingly busy day, lend the next hours of work and interaction an internal glow of accomplishment.

No matter what I feel I may achieve this day, these words penned off the phrases in my heart the past two weeks count, to me, as the most important and fulfilling part of my day. Hot off the muse and onto the blog – God I love to write…

 

Learning to Dance the Rhythms

Life, at times, dances around your passions.
Other instances deliver macabre comic relief, like
A day unfolding as a flirt with suicide, or
Nights as lonely intrusions into chaos, or
A smile that slaps your face and wakes you up.

Unexpected incidents pepper your waking moments
Life bending and wending its will throughout,
Experience the far-less-than-dull fuel
Maintaining your tenuous grip on sanity, while
Time slips into the cracks and crevices in your existence.

We all love to pretend we know.
We know all about where we’re going
How we will arrive and with whom and what
Yet when we step back with lucid internal eyes
Our ride fell far from the path initially directed.

Life at times dances around my passions.
My personal comic relief laughable in a relaxed moment.
Dancing with death real or imagined exhilarates
Loneliness but a preamble to relationship
Morning smiles to be cherished throughout my years.

Learning to dance the rhythms is special and what life is all about…

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Poetry Double Header

26 Sunday Aug 2012

Posted by Michael Ray King in Poetry

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

heart, heart poem, introspection, love, love poem, melancholy, passionate, poem, poetry, writer's mind, writing, writing poetry

How about a double header today. At least a double header. I will only speak for myself here. For me, NOT writing becomes a malady. A disease. Actually, more appropriately spelled and emphasized as a “dis-ease.” This comes with much introspection and observation of life.

I wrote the sentence “astonishing how quickly life passes” from a person who posted online about the passing of Neil Armstrong. That statement is nothing new. Many have said it, and many will continue, including me.

The astonishing rate of the passage of life lives in me as a writer. Always has. In fact, part of the core of my inspiration and motivation to write finds its source in this fact. We don’t live forever. Temporal is such a devastating but perfect word.

I often struggle with life. I tussle with it. I wrestle with it. I resign myself to it. I rage against it. I caress it. I cherish it. I love it. I hate it. I find life unequivocally fascinating and enticing. I find life exhausting and depressing. I find life in every emotional aspect I can.

Then I write it. I write life. Good. Bad. Ugly. Sublime. Beautiful. Toughing. Real.

Then I don’t.

That’s my issue. My problem. My solution. My damnation. My salvation. I have a lover, or should I say, in Lennonesque fashion, my lover has me. First up on the double header:

My Lover

I need your voice, your warm hello
Your lovely smile that warms my soul
I need your time and special touch
Your soft embrace that’s never enough

I crave your passion, your intensity, your care
Your fountain heart, your billowed hair
I crave your presence, your breath, your thought
Your inspiration that’s never bought

I’m a junkie whose life rests in your arms
Your tendril fingers lead mine to charm
I’m a junkie whose realization came clear
Your mistral wind draws muses near

I’m lost without my lady’s attention
Your willowed breezes carry sweet intention
I’m lost without this lover’s swirl
You’re my indiscretion, writing, you’re my girl.

 

When I abandon writing for the “work” I must do, or even the day I must live, a dissonance forms within me. A need. A desire. A passion. I hollow spot that desperately needs filled. A flame that must burn. A tear that must fall. A wan smile that must creep to my lips. A laughter required to burst upon this world. A broken heart that must incinerate into phoenix ashes only to be reborn again.

Then there’s the “real” world. That hateful place where passion and creativity are “nice” but unimportant to the money-driven. Cast aside as weak and “hobbyistic”, my real world only lends lip service to my dreams. I must fight for my dreams and aspirations.

That’s a tough order when these dreams and aspirations are without form and void. Isn’t that the ultimate description of creativity? Without form and void? Something coming from nothing? Yet the “real” world demands explanation. Cross examination. Judgement of worthiness.

If you cannot live and make money in the “real” world, your worth is greatly diminished. Oh yes, that is until you actually come across with something tangible. Potentially salable. Consumable.

I’ve found the elusive kindred spirit to be a great desire. Someone who understands in this day of greed and avarice and power and external pleasure, that life truly exists on a breeze. Whether the day be nuclear hot or Neptunian cold, life wends its way through our temporal existence a fleeting, invisible wake that only can be seen in its after-effects.

A more consumable, tangible, and “reality” driven piece of writing that temporarily bridges the gap between the two worlds gets delivered something like this:

Her Digital Window

That slightly worn path ‘neath her digital window
Entertains warm, loving eyes that soar in the night.
Head full of rain, sorrow laden heart, yet
Silent melodies drift up to her in word caresses.

Dreams waft through breezes leagues from her shore
Curling and lazy and impassioned and more
Hopes cling through wreckage and pain and loneliness
All to fill her path with the aroma of love.

Could days so frantic, so full, so intense
Leave room for the night with its melancholy romance?
There are times when two walk this world together
With all the stars cheering their way.

Will she look out along the path ‘neath her window,
Grin and welcome a song in the night?
Stars then, in all their glorious symphony
Shall pale behind the twinkle in her eye.

Time steals what moments we may share.
Days too often rule like a heartless taskmaster.
Her slightly worn path ‘neath her digital window
Grows roses who strive to reach the light of her smile.

 

Why would I say this is more “consumable?” Simply because there are those who waffle between the “real” world and the emotional world. In fact, most of us must do this. We must survive and no one will feed us and take care of us for simply being in touch with emotion and writing about it.

The same is true of all artists. We all must support ourselves in order to pursue the creativity that lives within. So when writing resonates with the broader, more money driven populace, I say it becomes more consumable. The writing then “justifies” our existence to others.

I’ve found I am much too concerned about this “justification.” I’m too concerned with what others think, when I literally cannot know what they think. This may be part and parcel of what it is to allow your creativity to be exposed to the world. I know I struggle to find that kindred spirit who understands, who I can turn to at any time and get empathy and a knowing nod.

On this rainy, double header day in central Florida, my musings exposed for what they’re worth. To me, these musings in print keep me sane, fulfilled, and justified. I can only speak for myself.

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