4.4.12

Yesterday Blues


I am a member of a group called “poetic design”, it’s a Facebook page. So the people are utterly gifted in this group, they make me feel like my writing is for kindergarden children, about 99.9% of my poetry is about personal experiences or close encounters with the theme in question and the things these people write about are astounding and remarkable and mature, my prayer to God still remains, I want him to make of me a poetry slut or a words-whore, whatever he is able to give me really. Anyway enough about the background check because it’s not at all my focus for writing this note. Someone asked a very fascinating question on poetic design and the question was: Why is it that most writers struggle to write love poems but when love brings pain, poetry flows endlessly? I think when we are in love, no matter how buried we may be in our lovers souls, we are constantly planning the exit strategy, we deal with love lost while still in love, I think we do this just to protect ourselves and to maybe fool ourselves into thinking it’s not going to hurt that much. When that dreadful moment finally comes and we have to wave so long to what once made us leap to incredible heights, we are ready, words armed to describe the feelings, to label pain and to act victims. We programme ourselves to forget what love once meant to us so we can deal with what now is, forgetting that as painful as love now is, it doesn’t disappear overnight, with pride or shame, we still bear the footprints of love and we pain because love still echoes in our heart. We don’t hurt because love is gone, we pain because we detest the sad reality that the love we would love to forget forever creeps on us, keeping us from slumber, seeking embrace, having the foot of our hearts still glued to what no longer describe what and where we now are. We mourn for loss, professionally labelling each emotion so we can say we endured and maybe get to be called strong, only the weak dwell on has-been’s the world has made us believe. Silently we are all weak, we proudly sob for yesterday, we call for yesterday as if she were a friend, we reluctantly yet cheerfully reminisce so we can confirm to ourselves that yesterday really did exist. We cry for yesterday while simultaneously celebrating the fact that yesterday is still better than today. Sometimes pain is all we have to prove that yesterday wasn’t a figment of our imagination, so we will gladly dwell in pain so we can tell tales of yesterday, tales camouflaged in love.