Why I Still Read Sad Poetry

My son told me today, as he stared at the stacks of chapbooks in my Car console, that it was unhealthy how much “weird” stuff I read. He is 9. Nine years old. I told him that I didn’t consider poetry weird, nor should he, and that it was a form of art, and all art of beautiful in its own realm or form. His rebuttal was that not all poetry was sad, and I should try some general stuff instead of all this sad stuff, and he said that all art wasn’t sad art. Again, he is nine, and very intelligent. But the thing Is, I happen to enjoy a little bit of melancholy every now and then. Maybe every day sometimes, maybe not so often. He is a smart kid though. We are what we fill our minds with. Sad in, sad out.

I lay here staring out the window at midnight. My head is so full already, of so many things. It is very easy to get lured into unleashing what is in your head, on social media. Nobody there cares about anything the way you do really, because we are all so different. These Stars, they are beautiful and they listen, but they don’t care. It’s a sad hard day, when the one person who’s opinion mattered, well their opinion doesn’t matter anymore. So, I don’t want to blindly let others matter, when they don’t. Gonna stay off Facebook a while and write here instead again, until I feel better.