I read somewhere that great art never comes out of comfort.
I’m on the hunt for that secluded meadow or the rosy park,
And when I find them, I wonder why I have nothing to write.
When things are too good, there is no story.
Happy love poetry is the driest subject of them all.
People’d rather know your tears when heartbroken;
They’d rather feel your biggest fall.
So I come inside from searching –
In a messy room, there’s no distraction from my mess.
And I quietly begin working,
To find and take the troubles off my chest.
The Contemplative Shelf 