My Imaginary Life Poem by Chris Embrick

While some ascribe to the poet intuitive insanity
and others reduce a work to artistic vanity
Personally, I reject both notions.For if either true then I have spent most of my life a stranger to myself.
Oscillating between states of mind (whatever the number) , it is often with tasks requiring deeper thought and imagination, that the unexpected occurs.Light streams through the subconscious soul-window
, illuminating an ocean of uncharted possibilities.

Taken to new realms of reality and along the way exposing life's flotsam memories either to be resolved or forgotten.
From the subconscious backyard, I live my imaginary life.
I draw from my own life's well as well as from the cisterns of others.
It is here in the birth place of ideas that the next poem emerges.

In writing, some poems may reflect as Freud surmises, some subliminal desire.Maybe true on occasions but often poems are a fabricated story.Often paralleling life's endeavors, encounters, or observations of the natural world.
Often I place myself into situations I have never experienced.In writing a poem of sadness, if the words bring tears to my eyes, then I know it will strike a chord with others.Emotions are much the same around the world. I imagine how I would react to situations of love, friendship, betrayal, kindness, hatred, a heartache, the death of a child or wife, or even the thoughts of a fetus being aborted.

In my imaginary life, I've been:
deranged, suicidal, an introvert, extrovert, attained saint-hood at least twice to quickly lose it again. I've been the Lion King, Humpty dumpty, an overweight Alice, in a Mongolian tent, in the King's palace.At times, a prodigal lover, a betrayer, the Dragon slayer, a Wizard, a clown, a tiger, the drunk in town, a philosopher, a scientist, a deep space explorer,
Superman, and the invisible man.

Although in reality I'm a bachelor, I've been married and divorced a dozen times, been falsely accused of crimes, I've buried children and wives.I've lived both lively and melancholy lives.A knight on a steed, a beggar in need, Scrooge on steroids, a champion of morality, a writer of tragedy, a dreamer of reality, a novelist, a poet, a farmer, a singer.
I've lived with high class, crawled in the gutter on my ass, drank the finest wine and rum, and begged for crumbs.I've fought in history's wars, died with valor- honored brave.Died in a trench alone, my last thoughts of love and home.

In every poem twists and turns
I play the part that my heart yearns.
So who am I?
Each day more of the puzzle solved
My life through poetry not yet resolved
But in whatever state of mind, I live a life of multiplicity
the man inside still a mystery.

Someday, my imaginary life will expire, from dreams at last my thoughts
retire.On that day when sweet peace remains at last my life I'll
understand. See more clearly who I am.
Find beyond this life a welcome mat
Imagine that.