The Reason for Everything

It is one of those days where you have to drag emotions
out of the maw of darkness.

It is a black hole, that maw, that black hole
that swallows ever emotion and leaves you
not bad. Not good. Flat. Empty.
A shell of sorts, but, it you practice enought
you become the magician,
pulling rabbits and dove and chainsaws
of your battered tophat for the audience.
A slight of hand that you have become so perfectly
proficient with that no one notices
until you ruin the trick with a confession,
sharing the secret. Action trumps it all.
Trumps anxiety. Trumps depression.
A nifty trick of neuroscience. Slight of hand perhaps
but it works. And so you sit at the table
in the center of the stage, and practice,
day after day, in public. Let them see your failures,
let them see your magic when it works,
dispelling the myth and mythology
and trading it for the simple act of doing
anything, again and again.
No one claps any more, and that is just fine.
The audience leaves when they have learned the secret,
and that after all, is the whole point.

About this poem.

About a conversation I had with my friend Jack this morning. About my depression. About writing. About the fact that people often leave you once they have what they need from you. About, about, about. Too much to decipher really, When the explanation is longer than the poem, you need to stop early and let you, my dear readers, figure it out for yourselves.

That’s the fun of it, really. When the poem ceases to be mine, and becomes yours.

Tom

PS: I love the word “maw”. I am glad to finally get to use it in a poem.