Murchadha

Though my passion for poetry may be stronger than steel,
It symbolizes a vulnerable extension of me I don't usually reveal.
Read with care while you dissect every rhyme.
My existence is dependent on every poetic line.

Emerson, Cummings, and Whitman inspire.
Nothing new, nothing old, save a poet's desire,
Crafting lines to ease the troubles that hinder his mental health.
Like many poetical geniuses before me, I write solely for myself.

Originality is the bane of every creative mind.
Artistic endeavors get more difficult with the passing of time.
We struggle tirelessly to be unique yet relevant,
For something truly amazing and irreverent.

Must every creative mind experience this pitfall?
Delusion and confusion upsetting us all,
Fighting fabricated wars we made real in our mind.
Perhaps all artists inherit the curse in their own time.

The enemy of the creative process is doubt and regrets.
Therefore, release the sorrows and the pain that upsets.
Walking the line of the living and the deceased,
I find my inspirations and creativity increased.

These teardrops beside me flow,
From a quiet, happy, thankful soul.
The years taking their expensive toll,
Her beautiful smile a grand seed to sow.

She lowers her head to try and sleep,
But thoughts of the past run long and deep,
Attempting to make its victim weak.
Her memory only shows the harsh and bleak.

She truly wants to clear her mind,
However, she cannot erase the passing time.
Wisdom would implore her to leave it behind.
Therefore, she could enter a sleep so sublime.

Alas, this poor lass is wide awake,
Only regret plagues her mental state.
She never learns from any prior mistake.
Thus, the smile she forces is for her own sanity's sake.