NaPoeWriMo, Day One

Yes, I do know that I'm a month late.

Hail Mary

I've always thought of poetry
as a sort of confessional,
a way in which I could be honest
when I could be honest no other way.
I would see myself when I was writing,
speaking every line in a polished wooden closet,
my face pressed against the grate,
murmuring to you in fervent, urgent whispers.
I would say
"I believe the world is a fallen place
that is hard and bitter and cruel.
I don't want to be out in it.
I don't want to participate in this any more."
And you would reply
"It's all right, son,
we all slip sometimes.
For penance, you must write this down
and in ten years, when you are looking at the
sun through the leaves,
or eating a really good strawberry,
you should take this out to remember how you were.
You will look at yourself with an amused and bewildered fondness
and you will forgive yourself for hating the world."
I left, heart heavy, and purchased a book
I took with me everywhere. And I wrote down everything.
And now, reading it back to myself one warm, fine morning,
I find that I do, because I did.