About a week ago, I was sent a list of guidelines to singing the blues. A certain name, city, and car, among other things, are (according to these rules) required to sing the blues. Do I qualify in any way to sing the blues? No. But in these times, the blues seems like the only song appropriate to sing.
Then I started thinking, how is singing the blues going to help me? Frankly, it's not. And so I wrote this poem:
Not The Blues
It would be so easy
to sing the blues today.
The quarantine blues
the looting blues
the cabin fever blues
the fiery burning blues.
Somehow, I won't
sing the blues today.
It will be hard,
but I cling to hope.
The hope that
I'll see the people I love
once again.
The hope that
good things are happening
and will happen.
The hope that
there is something beautiful
beyond all this.
The hope that
this storm will create change
for everyone.
Maybe I'm too optimistic,
but if I wasn't
I wouldn't make it out of bed.
On my own
I still cry and worry
but I've learned
it doesn't do much at all.
What I can do, though,
is hope.
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