There are too many poems that have been written that I cannot read them all
What hurts me the most are all the poems that I will never write
Because of time, because of space, because of focus
Because of pain, because of joy, because of confusion
Because of anything
But mostly the excuses
And the fly in my bedroom that I will no longer be able to blame when winter comes
Poems have a habit of sneaking up on you like a badly timed sickness
Ideas come to me like waves of fever, climbing the thermometer ever higher
Until the mercury bursts forth from the tip, and I must create.
My focus has a habit of leaving like the sunset
But like the sunset, I can depend on it to be there each day
Sitting here forcing myself to focus, I am overly aware of the feelings of my body
The beat of my heart
The air in my lungs
The hair on my arms standing up
I once had a friend who would get nauseous when she was “too aware” of her body
I do not understand why one would fear being reminded that they are alive
There are a lot of ideas that comes to one’s mind when forcing oneself to write a poem
I am kind of faltering.
But then I remind myself of all the poems I still have to write
Autumn will not be missed by me.
Winter will not be missed.
If God wills it so, nothing will be missed.
I hope that dying feels like being a small bug
Lost in a building away from my own environment
And then from the skies come a set of impossibly large hands
Scooping me up, sliding a white sheet underneath my fragile, miniscule body
And a glass dome over my head.
I hope death is larger than the tallest tree, the strongest sunflower.
And more gentle than anything as they carry me past the threshold of the sliding glass door
I hope the sky is blue, and the sun shines down on my body one final time as the hands tell me
“You are safe now. You are finally back home.”
We had another argument today
About what, I will probably forget
I called you a bitch, you called me a cunt
Same old, same old
I am alone writing this now.
It is funny
How we argue so much
How I screamed for you to go to your chores and leave
To leave me alone with my agony
And now all I want is to see you again.
I’m sorry I am so angry.
I’m sorry I am so immature
I wish I could take away whatever pain I cause you
I’m sorry
I’m sorry, mom.
Sometimes I wonder how I will fare when you have passed on
When I no longer have the privilege of crying in your arms
Will I mature, or will I still feel like that child?
What will the grief do to me?
I will miss you dearly, I will miss you dearly.
There are things you will never tell me
There are things I will never tell you
Is it better to leave things unsaid?
I don’t know
But I do know I love you.
The hand of a once blonde polyphage now belongs to a skeleton
He sits underground, rotting further each day, he is probably dust now.
But still his hand is reaching out, and from the tips it grows roots,
Roots that reach up and cut through the earth, stretching further and further into the sky
Turning to wood, the trunk of a magnificent tree, aged and towering over us
Leaves bring us shadow from the harsh light of the sun
While the branches allow just enough of the sun’s warm rays to comfort us
Two friends meet under the tree, connected at the heart the way that the tree is rooted to the earth.
There is a hand inside your head that reaches outside of you sometimes
She sits in your head, growing brighter each day, she will escape one day.
And still her hand reaches out, from the tips it grows roots,
Roots that reach up, and out, and everywhere in many directions
Canvas and ink, the sign of an ambitious soul, stuck in a city of madness
A smile that guards the inner mind
While the eyes show just enough of the soul to blind me
Two friends meet in the mind, connected at the heart the way they are connected to their own souls.
I do not know how to write a poem about you
I do not think there are enough words in the language I have spoken my entire life to describe you
Why don’t we start with the anger that I held for so long
The anger I am still holding for you
The fact that I spent who knows how many years wishing
Wishing I could have known he was hurting you
Wishing I could have said something
Wishing that you had acted differently
I still wish I could have taken that all away for you
I think you are the reason I hate men.
I think you are also the reason I love women
Their strength, their passion, their love languages.
Their resolve, their desperation, their desire to keep going.
Do you know how much I loved you?
Was it enough for a small little girl like you?
You were so strong, you were so fragile
I looked at you and I saw the fourteen year old that I had met, and the woman that she grew into
They inhabit the same place, wherever you stand.
I wonder what she looks like now
I wonder if she even is a she anymore.
Do you still have a girlfriend? Does she still take up your time?
Has your grandmother passed on, did she ever give you that recipe for chicken soup?
Does your brother look different now? Is he a man?
How is your relationship with both of your fathers?
Are you still afraid?
There is still a lot of things I cannot do without thinking of you
I don’t know if I should ignore these memories or let them happen
Is it healthy to hope the best for someone who forgot about me?
Is it immature to reflect on it if I am trying to heal?
Why did I love you so much?
I remember the night we stayed up talking
I spoke you down from suicide once more
And you sobbed
And you said “nobody will ever love me like you do”
And I drew pictures with my markers, as you sobbed over the phone
What is there to say about you
You are a child and an adult all at once
I miss you, do you miss me?
I think I’ll end this poem before it gets too long.
Just know I loved you.