(As I move further along into this craft, questions appear as quickly as answers.  This is one I’m still not quite sure I’ve solved.  Day 274…)

That’s All We Do…

What is it about crumbling to pieces
That makes my poems so much better?
My happiness is as honest as its opposite
And I could burst into a million bits from it, too
Why does imploding into my self
Bring new structure easier?

I chisel better status from the rubble
In honor of those Tuesdays and May evenings and years
And years
Of going from whole
To sum of parts
That seem to dismiss nursery rhymes
Claiming people can’t be repaired after falling
Guess I’m a different kind of king
A different kind of egg
One that doesn’t break from sitting on the edge of the castle