Untitled Poem by Summer Dawn Pond

Why do we take to poetry in sadness, weeping, and turmoil? Why do we crank out our best work late into the night while crickets chirp our song of solidarity back to us from sporadic placement in the tall grass? Why are all of the best works simple products of our catalysts of depression? Why do we hold our hands to our heartbeats and long to find the heartbeat meant to harmonize with ours? Why do we spend all the days of our youth wishing, praying, screaming to the skies to bring that one into our lives? Why can we not enjoy all of the small tastes of heroism, adventure, and healing when they are meant to happen as opposed to longing hopelessly for it to happen sooner? Why can't we understand that love is meant to be accepted at just the right time?

And the clock struck 12: 00...