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I call on it
in desperate times -
when the chain
linking my mind
to its soundness
is strained.
And my optimism
grounded
like planes
by gale forces
wanes,
because my losses
outnumber my gains
like race horses
I bet on all came
in after
Place and Show.
When I feel
I have no place to go
to feel I’m winning,
and no one knows
or even cares
to empathize
because I wear
the stoic guise
that hides
the hopeless eyes
of a hopeless man
like dark Ray-Bans.
Thank God for aviators!
Like window blinds
do neighbors,
like de-batteried cells
and padlocked doors
block gazers
from viewing
the open sores
of my emotions.
I’ll let them
ulcerate and ooze
onto the pages
when I choose.
My ball pen
effortlessly moves
until I find
my spirit soothed
and calmed
like noisome itching
with cool balm
from loving arms
and caring hands.
So every eye
that reads these words
and understands
them clearly sees
with comprehension
of their heart
what writing poetry
means to me!
- HymnAgen
