I was going to write a letter to myself the way a grieving man or woman or child at a funeral writes their feelings into the grave pit of their beloved. But that seemed too depressing this rainy morning.
So, instead I decided I’d write a poem the way a happy man with a smile as long as a small, paring knife writes a letter of gratitude into an empty wall with his eyes.
I can’t tell you how many times someone told me writing must be therapeutic for me. I don’t know, man, I say to them every time by looking away quickly and then looking back, and just before I respond by saying I suppose therapy is sometimes a side benefit.
The truth is if writing poetry was about feeling good and being good I wouldn’t do it. If I write it for anything I write it to feel stronger.