My Only Comfort

On the art of poetry.

Sometimes,
when I feel so weary
I can barely lift my head,
I trade my despair for solace
and journey to my one true home.
Here, I am free.
I fear nothing and no one.
Sometimes, when I grow restless,
unable to function any longer,
I turn to pen and paper,
my only comfort,
my only joy.
Here, I am oblivious.
I see nothing and no one.
I hear nothing and no one.
I am alone, blissfully alone,
and yet not.
I am surrounded by colleagues,
fellow writers.
I feel their presence within me.
Emerson, Dickinson, Byron, and Shakespeare
exist in my heartbeat, my pulse, my coursing blood.
They urge me to persist in my odd scribblings,
and so I strain my eyes against the darkening sky.
I cannot release my pen, cannot interrupt my flow
for such a mundane matter as light.
My colleagues know I am destined for greatness.
I am not so sure.
Countless papers lie in the trash can, another prized possession.
Its importance is second only to my treasured pen and paper.
Dawn breaks suddenly, and I drop my pen.
I have finished.