What's In A Rhyme?

I don't know if I've mentioned it on this blog yet, but I've written quite a bit of poetry in the last couple of years. Yes, lot's of it is about men *rolls eyes* and the morbidity of random allegory. What can I say? I write about what I don't understand. After all, confronting what you don't know is the best way to get a grip on what you need to understand. Yup, I have my moments, guys.

I was taking a detour through old text files I've got saved on my computer and, of course, I came across dozens of poems that really sucked. But, let me tell you, there is always a sliver of something good among the bad. I found this poem I wrote back in October of 2011 titled "Night Waltz."

Dawn's awakening leaves her stiff

And the weary winds whipser her departure

She drifted off when the skies were clear

Long ago, when He called her Dear

Canopy grains sheltered her dreams

And kept her sleeping beneath the arms of Michael 

Soft lullaby, sweet timbre of the chosen waves

The darling child, freedom she craves

Guardian keeper of the night dances swiftly

Sways and sighs as the earth envelopes her womb

Bearer of daybreak homily, fragmented nature

Carrying the needed, sunshine allure

And the moon depresses to the ocean floor

Lady of the day sighs a sweet hello

There is a hush, the serenity is taken

And the child stirs, she is awakened

Almost every piece I've ever written has a "thing." This "thing" is normally my muse or train of thought running throughout the piece. It varies almost every time I sit down to write. Sometimes it's a good book I just finished, personal experiences, a certain holder of my heart, or even the pure insanity that sometimes is my mind. Honestly, I don't remember half of what my poetry means to me because sometimes I can't even recall writing any of it. This one, for instance, probably has a great "thing," but, sadly, I have no earthly idea what that "thing" could be.

I remember that the only thing I truly enjoyed writing in my high school creative writing class was poetry. It didn't need structure or plot or characters or anything like that. It didn't need substance or defined meaning. It didn't even need to make sense. I could make everything up, and no one would ever know because they could just decide for themselves what each line meant.

The last poem I wrote was in late September of 2012. I stopped because I got really depressed. The kind of depressed that takes over every aspect of your being. My muse seems to have gone out to have its own epic tale with sexy sirens. And it just hasn't returned home to me yet.

Then again, writing poetry takes an immense amount of concentration for me, so I wasn't even writing THAT much poetry to begin with. It has to be just right. My inner perfectionist had a field day with every stanza. I miss it, though. Somedays I think about opening up to a blank canvas and just going at it like I used to, but it just doesn't happen anymore. I guess this is the erectile dysfunction for poets.

Poet #1: Oh, bro, I totally busted out the hottest haiku ever last night!
Poet #2: No way! Lucky! I have the hardest time keeping mine at the right number of syllables. It's pretty embarrassing.
Poet #1: Aw, man. That's gotta suck. But who says life is all about busting out hot haiku's?
Poet #2: Yeah, it's not like human existence relies on it or anything.

Something like that, maybe.

It's amazing, though. Every song or rap every performed began as poetry. There are entire novels written in verse. People have become famous for writing poetry. It's part of English curriculum in most elementary schools. I just love it.

Perhaps one day my muse will come home to me with open arms, and I'll be able to bust out some hot haiku's again. Until then, my love. Until then...