Who says a poem must be meaningful?
Who decides our words must mirror our lives?
Who decrees that promises must survive time?
Anyone can speak in empty words
and swear by promises made to be broken.
These are empty words.
This is a promise with a fragile spine.
I place my pen on the desk
and begin anyway.
I begin with a question:
is feeling alive a requirement, or a rumor?
Why is this generation afraid of being unalive?
Is it a failure to feel hollow,
to feel nothing,
to feel dead while breathing?
Depression, sadness, and mourning
can be as intoxicating as ecstasy.
They distort, yet clarify.
They teach the mind to look at reality sideways
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