It feels redundant
To write another poem
About heartache.
To put my pen to paper
Ooze with bitterness
Hoping to sound beautiful
Hoping to form beauty from
Something so ugly.
It seems redundant.
But there again,
Everything seems redundant lately.
And isn’t it true that
From shit, roses grow.
Like an asphodel birthed in Hades.
Perhaps I can grow something,
Heavenly, celestial or simply lovely
From the swamp of my
Emotional compost heap.
That’s it isn’t it?
Compost.
Dirt.
Earth.
The basis of life.
That’s all that’s left.
A bulb
A shoot.
Back to my core.
And all I am doing,
Day in and day out
Is spreading my roots
Inside my personal flower pot.
Ceramic and brown with
Three holes in the bottom
Just waiting for water.
I guess it takes time to
Grow something from a root.
So patience
So time
So care
So love.
Provide myself with these things
Perhaps?
And soon I’ll be
The Great Oak I once was.
Because I was great.
Before I was chopped down.
Before I was smothered,
Choked and parched
With all the light blocked from me.
You were anti-photosynthesis to me.
Reverse respiration.
A blacked out green house.
Time to grow.
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