Shall I write tonight of the fluttering dance
of tiny indifferent wings? Describe
the butterflies in my stomach, angry,
the birdsong that wakes me at dawn;
describe the envy as my feeble heart
constricts in its gilded cage?
Make a beauty from my sadness,
call it poetic?

(Maybe it is.)

Shall I then speak of flying
and lament that I am grounded?
Watch the sun fall; doubting
it could ever re-emerge?
Write sonnets to the moon, for
fleetingly, darkness seems eternal?
Make it somehow magical
in its emptiness,
though it isn't?

Shall I speak of nighttime,
like it covers me, consumes me? Write
of Melancholy, Hopelessness
like my old friends, or ex-lovers.
Shall I say they dwell with beauty, Keats,
personify and veil them?
They are ugly, withered hags, John, and
I will not, can't comply.

Does it make me less of a poet
if I tell you this isn't beautiful?
(If no nightingale sings softly, if my tears
are not singular crystals-
if this Melancholy is poison crushing
my fragile human soul?)
Can I not write the truth then,
say that this, right now, is agony?
Not calm, nor painfully beautiful;

I am dying. I am lost.