My Own Chaos

"Out of Chaos, Brilliant Stars are Born"

Before a great vision can become reality there may be difficulty. Before a person begins a great endeavor, they may encounter chaos. As a new plant breaks the ground with difficulty, foreshadowing the huge tree, so must we sometimes push against difficulty in bringing forth our dreams.

My head feels cold, leaden, like the granite that will eventually sit about it. The tiniest of stray rays of sunlight send soiled daggers into my head until I finally lock myself in my bathroom where not light can penetrate. The bowling ball that now passes for my head is just as dense - no meaningful thought can form, nothing but shrieks of pain come forth from my pen. And the inadequate pencil-thin stick that my bowling ball head teeters upon, bows out to both sides in the middle from the shear exhaustion of holding up such a dead weight. Tylenol gives no relief, ibuprofen may cause me to draw my last breath, and since I am trying to avoid that sort of Shakespearean ending, I sit here in my empty bathtub, hiding from light and the everyday noise of my family.

What does this have to do with my poetry? What was I talking about?