This is the story of how I began telling the truth. The truth I defined as “two truths and at least one lie.” The truth of my experience.
Poets often carry sorrow in their sockets – some underlying angst influencing attention. There’s sclera, iris, pupil, and a deepening mirror of perceived pain…or seared “ego.” Grief or grudge – and difficult to distinguish.
As much as there is to learn or to know, some simple patterns give the slip. Once you figure a composing context, the information is derived. Look out for what might constitute survival for each respective entity. Aim your inquiry there.
Parents hurt as much as heal. As do love and risk and wisdom (or well-being). All that is given in life is also taken away – exactly when it is given.
Everyone canvasses sorrow. The surgeons in their trembling hands, the librarians in their order. The therapist’s reflective stance, architect’s angles, businessman’s mettle. We all know that we’re going to die. Celebrities in their acclaim, the athletes in their strength, and whores in their affection. Everything is risk.