The Will to Not

My poetry sucks,

quite simple really,

where is the imagery,

the deep cavern of emotional pain

that seeps through the cracks,

like droplets of some fresh storm

finding their way through nature’s soil,

dragging everything along.

Perhaps a cleansing is desire’s companion

while a constant rewind

of bitter taste remind

the newly dampened soil must be nurtured,

allow inspiration to blossom rather than lose

its strength to blend with the water magic.

I want to walk the shoreline

without any obstacles

freely step upon rock and tease pooled water

with naked toes that feel they belong.

I want to feel the natural crisp air

of a summertime heatwave that helps me to glow.

I want to know that winter’s reckoning is meant to only

allow the burrowing notions of time to reclaim themselves

in the heartiness of living the human condition.

I want to not succumb to the passing notion

of spiritual decadence that clings with urgency.