I'd thought the Poetry was beaten out of me
and for the longest time I wondered would I ever find peace.
I barely had enough confidence to express these words in the Bard's language,
only to have them laughed at by a man who refused my heart
and dumped it unceremoniously in a gutter on Olive Way.
I have asked myself many times, over and over,
why was I so foolish to allow him,
this feeble-hearted man, the liberty to threaten me
with so many words and so many clay pots,
prized poinsettias planted within.
Why did I follow him on his ramble through
a Wonderland of his own creation and selfish design?
Didn't I see that he was simply a foolish man-child
who might throw rocks at bloated bullfrogs,
tossing attitude and insignificance at whatever threatened
the rosy glow of his setting sun?
I'm glad that I left his twilight for him to contemplate on his own,
for I have become a stronger person for it.
I can now turn my back on those who have only ill for my supper.
I rely on the company of strangers now,
for friend and family alike have turned their backs on me without
the grace of apology.
I have independence of a sort
that only the wind and the storm can put fear in my heart.
And I have found that peace which I so desire,
the pleasant feeling of confidence in my own music and poetry,
the pleasure of exhibition and presentation and the warm response from a captive audience.