Not That It Needs Any Explanation

This is my first poem of the new year--here's to many, many, more.


I am writing for my life,
trying to find the right word
or words
that will, somehow,
make it all make sense.
I don't wanna repeat myself
and I've grown tired
of explaining myself--
the time for explanations
is passed;
what you have before you
in word and in deed,
is someone
who is simply
trying to hold on,
just simply
trying to be
in a world
that seems to be,
more and more,
rejecting authenticity;
rejecting raw honesty
and naked truth.

I am writing for my life,
because i know nothing else,
because I don't want anything else;
the jobs I've had,
the job I now have,
they are not who I am;
even the education I pursued,
though an integral
and meaningful part
of my life,
is not the sum total
of my existence.

At the time of this writing,
these are the facts
as I understand
and accept them to be--
I am a poet,
successful,
not because
of monetary gain
or
wide renown,
but because,
I continue to be
able to
put word to paper
in some sort of
coherent sense,
regardless of audience
or venue;

I am a husband,
still struggling to,
on a daily basis
to figure out
how to do that;

I am a father,
still amazed
that I get to be one,
having never really
had one
and still trying,
on a daily basis,
trying not to
repeat his mistake;

I am a man,
black and proud
of that fact,
given
all that that entails--
blessed by a God
that I don't always
acknowledge.

I have loved much
and hurt more;
I have friends
from a long-ago
shared history,
and I have friends
who know me
as I am now
and count myself
fortunate
to say so.

These are the facts
as I know them;
as real as
any that can be expected
to be;
take them or leave them,
that is the only choice
allowed.
And, as for the entirety
of this poem,
the same choice applies
here as well.

End of story.

Draw curtain.

Fade to black.

Fin

© 2012 Joseph Powell