Last Poem

This, I swear with despair, is true, when I met her, words already in
my mind from living so many years weighed down my thoughts
until she spoke and opened my eyes to words written by an artist and
poetess like her could lift the weight from my muse and allow my simple
words to surface. When they did, I began to write again and every word I
heard or saw had a meaning I never knew before her.

Enthralled that an accomplished woman like her could or would find my long
suppressed words had meaning lifted my ego from where it hid beneath my feet
to the top of my head. Life had meaning again and when the artist within awoke,
he forgot how many years had passed and thought her mind and his had met in a
space where only artists dwell and all those years in between made no difference.

But when logic stuck its ugly crown through my dreams and showed how an old
man like me could easily be made to look like a fool. A fight began between the
artist in me and the rational part of my brain to see what I should do and together
they went over what happened to me and though I was forsaken again, I pretended
I wasn’t one of them who let little things like rejection upset my face and turn it upside down.

In a writer’s world rejection only proves one hasn’t given up hope and has the guts to
try and try again I’ve been overruled so many time before that I’ve become immune and
when I hear or read dismissive words, they pass by my ears and I hear what I want to.
Rationality doesn’t stop reminding me that no matter how many words I write, they’ll
never bring me together with a woman I want.

I begin to wonder if it’s a woman I want or is it acclaim? If that’s the case then I’d better
stop wasting my time by writing every day and use my talented hands instead, or is that
another delusion? Why do I believe I have talent only because I feel the need to create?

To say feel doesn’t explain what happens when I’m overcome with the need to make something beautiful, something no one has yet seen. My arms begin to tingle and the feeling spreads to my hands and then my brain, and then has nowhere else to go. I decide here and now not to use words, but to create with things I can feel. No more poems or novels will be written by me. Give me clay, paint, or steel I can weld instead.

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