Yes, I am a negligent poet. I apologize. It seems every spring I melt into a puddle of goo just as everyone else is emerging from hiatus. I seem to be backward to about every natural rhythm in the *world*. I am a special ass snowflake. And here is a poem about it!
While nature emerges from the cold, dark, damp
I hibernate from the world
With every bud and blossom
I descend deeper into the morass
When did this reverse engineering take hold?
Must I succumb
To the tired convention of the despondent artist?
Must writing come from wretchedness?
I wonder, as words crash together in my head
Only I fear that instead of discovering creation,
I have instead been pulled into
Their black hole.