Poetry.

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To write that which is not said —
a somewhat terrifying experience.

But isn’t that what poetry is,
at least in this form?

A collection of words thought,
but never given voice.

Maybe it’s an overstatement,
an exaggeration or romanticization
of the written word,
but, what I write,
stems from this place of echoing silence.

I think and think and think
until my head feels so full
that words escape, ooze, pour
from mind to hand and hand to paper,
like a gash that bleeds without ceasing
or a hummingbird beating their wings
to hover in place.

Given breath,
the words sit in existence apart from me,
like a reflection of my soul
for which I share with others.

Truth.

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I’m sitting here, 236 miles east
of where I was this morning, thinking
about you and the overwhelming desire
I had to do something,
anything.

I read your email, twice,
and watched a beetle scurry across the floor.
I felt like a flood.
Everything I could possibly think to say
rushed from mind to hand
as my fingers typed furiously.

As the waters settled and I pressed send,
I could only think to drive,
to move, to go, to do something
that took me away from everything.

It’s a romanticised idea,
to pack a bag in five minutes,
leave a note on the table,
and walk out the door.

The need to rush
left me winded
and a bit dehydrated,
two hours later.

I blasted CDs from the stereo,
one after the other,
voice cracking as I screamed above the wind.

The drive gave me clarity.
It helped me think of you,
of us, of what I want,
and what you can give.

Our connection,
however fleeting and intense and scary
it has felt these last few weeks,
is all I can think about.

I don’t want to lose my confidant,
whom I see more clearly
than the stars on a cloudless night —
this person who cares for me in their way,
as I care for them in mine.

I know we are in different places,
but isn’t everyone?
We are all pages in some great journal,
notes taped or glued or written in the margins
of someone’s book.

Sometimes, we share a page,
a smudge of penciled-in remarks,
a whole chapter.

The difference, to me,
is the intention,
the coming back,
chapter after chapter in some form.

It’s why we have novels,
create anthologies,
share spoken word that goes beyond
what is scribed.

I’m not writing this poem to say
this is only a typo
in what will one day be our chapter.

I’m writing this poem because it is all I know.
These words commanded my attention,
and so I gave them a page to exist on.

I don’t know where we will go from here,
but with you, I’m not worried.

October 11th.

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It would be dramatic to say I feel lost,
but I do, in a way.
I feel and feel and feel and feel
until my bones go numb.

All I want is what was.
I shared my truth
after you did yours.

(As scary as it was,
I never understood how easy it would be.
That’s because of you. You
make it easy.)

I hate this impasse we’ve stumbled upon.
I’m struggling to find the right words.

(Could I have said more?)

I have a list, featuring
all of the things I would have shared
with you, in the last 24 hours, haunting my mind.

(It’s 22 items long. Funny coincidence, no?)

This is why I stepped back as much as I did,
because all of *this* might be too much,
even if you do not agree.

We talked about algebraic equations last week,
remember 2398 + sqrt(739)/42.133354?
I finally solved it.
2398.65
Isn’t it funny how it ended up nearly the same as the start?

Maybe that’s our path.
Maybe we are simply an algebraic expression
that brings us back to our beginning.

(Part of me hopes this is not true. I want to go forward,
forward at a crawl, walk, stumble, run — anything.
It isn’t entirely the same though,
maybe we are the 0.65.)

Our start,
was the day we stared at bugs and flowers,
ate wild blueberries,
and I quickly learned I wanted to know more.

I can’t say what will happen from here,
but I wait and think and feel.
Maybe, just maybe,
what you recognize in yourself,
is something so new, so beautiful,
that it will take time to understand.

(If you let me,
I’ll be there to help you understand.)

Could it be?

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I’m scared to tell you what I feel
because I’ve never felt this before.

I looked up ways to say “it”
and you would have found them funny.
I certainly did, but

You, holding me, is the one place I want to be.
You, caring for me, doesn’t feel real.
You, being vulnerable, weakens the walls I’ve built around my heart.

I wish there were more ways to say “it,”
more ways to express my heart, my brain, my bones.
“It” is the soft skin behind your knees,
the weight of your hand in mine,
the crinkles around your eyes.

I simultaneously want to have just met you
and have known you for a century.
Could we try to jump through time,
live in medieval Scotland, and
shiver together in a stone home?

If you ever read this,
I hope it doesn’t scare you.
It would be a shame to experience a heartbreak
so soon after knowing what “it” feels like.

Little Girl

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*A poem from the fall of 2019.*

The light in the distance reminds of something I just can’t place,
green, shining.

The moon’s so bright, I’m almost blinded by the beauty of it.

I let my inner child out,
she screams and begs and cries
with her new found freedom only to find
that she fought so hard to arrive in a world
of pain and grief. 

The tears marking her face create tracks,
tracks of her life slipping past,
year after year as she tries to bury herself away again. 

It’s too difficult. It’s all too much sometimes.
She can’t see the green grass or feel the crisp air.
She can barely address the ground beneath her feet
and the sky above her head. 

They keep her trapped on a planet
with an atmosphere so thick
she can barely breathe at times.

What if…

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What if —
hear me out —
we stop time?

It wouldn’t be too hard, right?
A simple equation or
perhaps a business transaction.

You study business, no?

I think we could do it,
and forever watch the stagnant sun
kiss the mountain top.

Being.

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The rain falls,
mimicking tears that could trail my face,
but none come.

A smile creeps across my lips.
I can’t really control it,
spreading rapidly to my eyes,
and my goofy self doesn’t know what to do.

My friend smiles at me as I smile to the world.
She knows as much as I do
that my poker face leaves when I think of you.

Maybe it’s a blursing —
I don’t know,
but you know what that is
and why I would say it.

I wish I could, simply,
be with you right now.

Too much

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I don’t sleep at night,
not anymore.
Too much has occurred
for me to find peace
and rest.
Too many have fought and died
and died
for me to have this blanket,
this pillow.

I stare at the ceiling,
my personal distress feeling like ants
compared to the wasps others deal with.
I think of you
and you,
and I wonder if you sleep soundly.
It would be like you, and perhaps you,
to do so.

But the aching in my chest
aligns with the one in yours.
We are witnesses
without mouths to scream.

I see the abyss.
It’s dark, but warm,
the stench unclear.

If you, or you wanted to,
we could link arms
plug our noses,
and plunge into the belly,
letting the unknown consume us.

She

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I spoke to someone today.
You may have met her once,
twice even.
Young, tired, with shining eyes.

She showed me past injuries,
each scar a scene from a film
made up of haunting memories.

Each pain point drew me closer,
cues to the battles she fought.
Villages crumbled in her wake,
dragons were slain, yet
wars continued waging.

It’s hard to understand, she said.
I nodded, listening.
I felt her fear,
cradling the dark in my lap
as she did in her head.

Her thoughts,
intricate and beautiful,
painted the walls,
telling a story with no ending.

She fought monsters
disguised as love,
lost friends who turned blindly away.

I kissed the scars on her arms,
her forehead, her heart.
I held her hand as she began to glow.
Warmth filled her cave,
and lightness took hold.

I swore to fight for her,
and to come back,
again and again.

Another

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This is another poem,
like all the others
written by wannabe,
heartbroken,
lost children
who saw too much,
listened too well,
and felt pain too often.

I’ve forgotten how many times
this has happened,
how many times I’ve
unknowingly been placed into situations
or held expectations
that failed at everything but
bringing me discontent.

I could count on my fingers
the number of recent incidents
fueling this poem.
I could star all of the conversations
and write you a book of footnotes
explaining.

It wouldn’t be useful though,
because no one seems to realize
what is happening once their words
leave their lips,
or when their lack of action falls short.

Growing up,
I was told I had an old soul.
Looking back,
I think that means
I had to grow up too fast –
learning the right cues,
holding in my uncertainties,
nodding accordingly.

Today,
I try to understand
and I try to put myself first,
but time and again,
I find myself sacrificing
at the words of others.

One of these days,
I just might be the martyr
you never asked for.