In the old news of yesteryear, I survived.
If things were easy, it wouldn't have been real, so, for all it was worth,
too much of it was too real.
December was always the difficult month but
I didn't tear up even once, not once, last Christmas.
Kept composure, maintained grace, had my happy days.
Kept my promises.
Had my cake, wanting to eat it too.
I was happy.
It was all me.
I didn't like it but I was good at it.
You move forward.
Collect loose pieces of what fell apart.
There really is no separation
of the art and the artist.
