undramatic birthday confession

i’m getting too old to pretend
otherwise —

this is who and what I am,
and i can’t help it;
haven’t been able to help it
all my life,
no matter how many times
i’ve tried

(and i’ve tried
many, many
times).

look, the sad, stupid fact of the matter is that
i’m only ever happy
when I’m creating
or thinking about creating,
which for me usually means writing
or thinking about writing.

i don’t say this
to be dramatic.

that’s the real crock
of this whole thing.
i’m not a dramatic person.
i don’t particularly like
dramatic people.

i grew up working farms.
grew up in a trailer.
grew up poor.
grew up feeling not worth a damn.
grew up scrapping for dignity.

so, i don’t take myself
particularly seriously,
nor do I care to cast myself
in a romantic image —

all that tortured artist crap.

this simply is
who and what
i am;

i’m only ever happy
when I’m creating.

i promise to continue
to find the middle ground
between happiness and responsibility;

to do my part for friends, family, and country,

but I need to keep creating
today, and the next day, and the next;

my birthday reminds me
of how fast time goes
and how when it’s gone it’s gone
and never comes back again;

look, this is who I am.

i’m only ever happy
creating, doing, writing,

this poem,
and the next one,
and the next one,
and the next.

Written by

I’m not in the Matrix. I AM the Matrix.

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