Nothing is set in stone

I haven’t read enough poetry lately.
Daily Undeniables to remind me to keep
writing. Some Maya Angelou to get me
feeling sassy. Charles Bukowski to remind
me about uglybeautiful and that it might
be good to drink some whiskey while writing
once in a while.

The problem is light. I want it. I want
to be it. I want to spread it. But there
are times and days and lives when
there is not enough for a poem. There
are times and days and lives when
there is mostly the empty dark
because I’ve taken my urge
to yell and tamped
it down into a tin can heart
that has sat unopened for
fear of cutting myself on
the jagged edges

There are days when
the calm does not feel quite
real and the cacophony does
not quite come forth and there
is only a bland in-between

Not light
not dark
both in sight.