January 2023:
I committed myself
to writing
one poem
every day.

I shared them with others,
competed in slams,
won cash prizes,
got published,
and foolishly felt
my dreams of becoming
a Poet
had been realized.

January 2024:
I only half-recommitted
to trying again—
because
creativity is hard
when drowning in
the uninspiration
of happiness,
of love,
of peace of mind;
because
is it even possible
to create art
without my addictions,
without my anxieties,
without the Sisyphean effort
of figuring out:
Who Am I?

Days…

Weeks…

Months…

Nothingness,
resulting in
a new bout
of paranoia.

Seeking out
talk therapy,
and cognitive behavioral therapy,
and pharmaceutical therapy,
I had forsaken my greatest remedy.

January 2025:
I now stand steady
in a new resolve
to practice preaching
what I teach.

So I resolve myself
to the adventure of
creation without conformation,
without validation,
without enterprise
or end result.

I resolve myself
to myself,
to the pen,
to the poetry,
to fulfill the need
that bubbles up inside
to spew forth the words
that form from the fountain
of my inner-most foundations
as a salve,
as salvation
for my very soul.