The New Year
A white canvass,
a blank page, a fresh start;
That’s what they
told you.
The promises of
the New Year.
No one mentioned
this shattered heart,
This waiting for
follow-through,
These doubts
whispered in your ear.
The pressure’s on
to make this year’s art
Something fresh,
something new,
So you hide your
old pieces out of fear.
None of these
fragments make sense,
So resolve for
something better –
An ideal you’ll
abandon within weeks
Because it’s hard
to whitewash a black fence.
You tighten your
own fetter
Keeping tongues
comfortably in cheeks.
But inside builds
bitterness from no recompense.
Your eyes are
just getting wetter.
Where is this
resolution everyone seeks?
You lay in the
wreck of what you’ve been,
Wide awake while
the word lies asleep,
Feeling the
weight of every mistake,
Every sorrow,
every wound, every sin.
Dark colors and
ragged edges you’re forced to keep,
Expected to
forget how much they ache.
The blood is on
your hands before you begin
And onto your
canvass it will creep,
But this stain is
the first step you must take.
Mosaics are made
from shards
And quilts from
patches
The New Year is
not empty, but filled
With plaster,
paint, and thread by the yards
To close up all
last year’s gashes.
Don’t waste the
past. Be thrilled
That your art is
unfinished, by far.
Beauty still
rises from ashes,
If we have the
courage to build.
