Poetry and Fireworks (formerly "Untitled 11")

Last year, as the year ended, I stayed up

All by myself, watching the bright light show.

As loud noises joined the technicolor,

I stayed inside and did what I always.

Well, it was poetry, for that matter,

And I did not want to miss the display.

Perhaps the old years were a bit more free...
I had not much to care about.  Not much.
Not until I had poetry, as thus,
And though it felt more obligatory
Than optional, I liked it. I grasped it.

That night, as I watched, I knew:  in my soul,
There was a longing that felt like fireworks.
Big. Bright. Loud. Explosive. Annoying. Swell.