It can’t sound

like anything but the lamest of platitudes

when exiting someone else’s mouth

(even when true).

One cannot will someone else’s gratitude.

It requires me to focus upon ants, daisies, and sunsets

instead of searching the skies for Clarence Odbody from It’s a Wonderful Life.

It does not beckon, appear like a beacon,

or saunter in on the arm of a muse.

Like exercise, and about as fun,

it requires practice and is never done.

Because a modicum of discontent is the fuel on which the artist feeds,

I must walk the razor’s edge between annoyance and despondency

to meet my needs and achieve productivity.

It is wickedly deceptive in its simplicity

and, quite frankly, that annoys me.

Because it always comes down to me,

and what I’m able and willing to see,

which can vary infinitely,

and I say this with just a scintilla of irony☺