I wrote this poem forty years ago, in 1978.  It feels strange looking back at it now.  I was in a very different place in my life.  I was 27 years old with a 6-year-old son, and just lost my idealistic views about relationships.  I had kept a hand written notebook where I scribbled down my feelings ever since I was 15 years old—when I wrote my first poem.  Many of my poems were musings and rhymes.  Looking back, it seems that it was the most desperate of times when I found myself writing real poetry with deep meaning.  When I felt pain or sorrow is when I wrote the best.  It was a way for me to cope with my inner demons.  I had a few light love poems, but most were quaint rhymes.  I had a traumatic childhood, and many of my writings reflect that even to today.

Back then I wrote for myself, never expecting anyone else to see my words.  I wrote raw, spontaneously, all at one time, letting it all out with a vengeance.  I never thought about rewriting, looking for the perfect words, or editing.  I never planned on sharing my inner most feelings with the world, until 2017, when friends that I let see my work encouraged me to publish.  The rest is history.  Sometimes I think my writing was purer back when I wrote exactly the way I felt instead of trying to be a fit for a certain publication or audience.  Being published is a game, you have to make all the pieces fit to be accepted.

This poem Ruin, was written at a time when a failing marriage was being intersected by a promising new relationship, or so I thought.  The falling into yet another explosive situation made me realize that I was my own worst enemy, bringing ruin to my world by trying too hard to be what I could never be—just like many ancient empires.  The war wages on even now, but I am finally learning with old age that I cannot blame anyone else for my decisions.  It is still my life, my choice, and my fault when I fail.