Poetic Reconstruction
I’m going to the hospital. I’ve made a reservation,
for I am much in need of a creative restoration.
I need an operation to regain my way of seeing.
I’m going to regain my glow–the fiber of my being.
I suffer from prosaism. Triteness clogs each vein.
My poetic diagnosis? Derivative. Inane.
The abundance of my poems does not refute the fact
of the originality that lately they have lacked.
So, take me to the hospital. I’m ready to be cut.
I’m ready to be lifted from my creative rut.
Unveil my eyes, unblock my brain. Clear pathways to my heart,
but as you improve parts of it, please leave the broken part.
For all the pleasures of the world do not make up a whole.
It also takes some sorrows to feed a poet’s soul.
For the Moonwashed Weekly Prompt: Poetic (I chose the word “poetic” as the prompt, not the raindrop photo.)
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 
Oh wow! Very evocative last lines
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Agreed 👌
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I generally always use the word in some way. I agree that it all the parts make up the whole regarding life. And while I am happy to be were I am now – I don’t think going back in time to change the past would improve anything but those moments, and that would change what I do have now.
Sometimes we get ‘stuck’ in our writing. One possible diagnoisis – Start small, even if just jotting observations. Then enjoy the play. Either condence the thought or expand it. I think you did well here. Thank you – yes sometimes we need a push, but I’d stay out of any instutution that would gut too much of your empathy and humanity. 🙂
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Luckily the hospital is just a metaphor.. It is words that heal for me.
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Words, healing words are good.
That’s good.
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Delightful poem and I think you can skip going to the hospital because your creativity is alive and well. The broken part is important because it is like a puzzle of emotions that we weave in our poems. I love this!
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What a lovely comment. Thanks, Eugi.
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You are most welcome, Judy.
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Cleverly written, Judy! For me, the hospital is a forest path and observing the changing of the seasons.
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For me it is a hammock down in my garden with one or two small dogs on top of me, watching the new crop of butterflies circle and land on the tabuchine.
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The last like is brilliant.
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Thanks, Dolly.
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I meant ‘line,’ of course.
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I understood that. I am so accomplished at hitting the wrong letter myself that it is a relief that occasionally someone makes the same mistake.
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You are very gracious, dear Judy.
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