Maybe I’m a cynic, maybe I’m a writer

It’s the days that I want to write the most when I don’t seem to have the words to say.

I’ve got the topics, and yet nothing seems to come out right.

Snow and the holidays shouldn’t produce poems that quickly turn dark.

The holidays
Ah, yes, the holidays
Full of light and laughter
And families and tears
And anxiety and dread

See? I couldn’t make it four lines without the reality of how I actually see it seep in and surround something that should be lovely and warm.

But am I cynical? Or have I simply found my niche in writing?

I once referred to autumn as the springtime of death for crying out loud.

But maybe I can still appreciate the brightly colored holiday lights as they start to pop up and yet write about them as the lights which dot the way of misery. Or speak about snowmen in their rapid decay; their lives short, but who said it wasn’t lived to the fullest?

Perhaps I’m destined to produce the twisted view on that which everyone else seems to find splendid.

Regardless, here’s hoping that I can find something in me worth sharing at a poetry reading tomorrow that won’t bring a crowd of holiday shoppers down, eh?

Until tomorrow,

cheers.

 

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