Poetry is the vein etched from my brain and flowing ideas into my hand

With my creation wielded before me

The threads and flayed fringes of my past meet and entwine their strings

A red string for love

A black one for relation

Deep cerulean for my hate

And the rest exploding splatters of color falling like snow over my pale face

The spidery script I sculpt

—Solicitously scrupulous—

Sailed across a blank slate in a sure canvas I would trap words on and look at later when I needed something to guide me

Poetry is the wildly growing ensnarement that tangled and swirled over my thoughts and down to my fingers

I trace my idea

—A sketch, immature—

But it sits and waits patiently for my return

If ever I dream my dreams I plant a seed

And from that seed

A forest grew

Within my head

A healthy garden of sprouts slowly ascend until I replant it outside

—Onto my canvas—

The flowers bloom only when I am thinking

But slowly wilt when I am away

I keep my mind open and watch over them so they never truly die

However

Wilting flowers are a thing of nature

And there are just some times when I cannot save one

I bury my shredded hopes in the dirt and desperately withhold myself

—To let it grow—

The sprout is gone

But not for long,

When I plant another to take its place

Though plainer and dull

It’s easier to sustain

—because for me only bleeding hearts and Pandora bloom in my garden of broken dreams and self doubt—

I wait for another time when my garden needs a tend

With gentle groom

And careful snip

I do try and try again