So, a couple of months ago I was feeling rather pessimistic about life. I’m usually a very optimistic guy, with a lot of dreams clouding my mind. But this was time was like an irregular beat. All my relationships were shot and I was pretty mad at the world-I guess I was feeling disillusioned, thinking my whole life had been one, unending drunken stupor( which it may have been, but that’s for another post-) and I was finally experiencing the hangover. Any-who, I write poems rather often and it has morphed into an exploration of my emotional life (which they say adds quality…) However, I hit a dry spell in my “emotion-bleeding” and thought I was no longer creative and couldn’t scrap around for anything to write about. Then I listened to this one song by Pink Floyd. It happened to be, “Shine On, You Crazy Diamond.” If you’ve never heard this song, it’s a must, at least once. I was so inspired by the intro of the song that I spat this little sweetheart out before they actually started singing! It was that fast. Thus, this poem represents the fact that I can becreative. Bon appetite!
The hero’s not done yet.
Dusty, he strides up the knoll as strength returns to his limbs,
His enemies’ faces a horrible blend of fear and wonder and disbelief-
He should be dead.
But he’s not…and that scares the hell out of them.
His hat, or what’s left of that wide-brimmed hero-marker,
Was cocked to one side with that air of unspoken business-
Something was about to go down.
Clouds of dust swarmed about him as his enemies fled in fear, their haste not making
Waste of the few seconds left of their ground-squirming, dust-munching existence.
The low-life’s-who do they think they are?
As he reaches the top of the small knoll, his hands find themselves at their sides
With the precise motion of an automaton;
They knew what they were doing.
Slowly, with grim-garbed death at his side begging him to speed up, he un-holstered his pistols,
Relishing every second of his revenge.
With the calculation of a mathematician he aimed his Colts at the small band of fleeing cowards,
About as far as one goal post to another down at a football stadium.
Lips curving up in mischievous delight, clothed in his five o’clock shadow, he chuckled with devilish pleasure.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
That day, the weight of the world was a little lighter, and Atlas shrugged, enjoying the lightening of his load.
Creativity was not dead. It was. alive.