Tag: pain

Separation.

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I’ve nestled myself under the boughs of a tree,
each foot rooted in the dirt,
back resting gently on rough bark.

The sun is shining today,
warming my skin from an intense cold
that had penetrated through layers of
cloth-fear-grime-loneliness
to leave me heartbroken.

Right now,
the pain exists,
but I’m not trying to run from it.

Tomorrow, even 1 hour from now,
may be a different story,
but in this moment,
I’m sitting with the uncomfortableness.

My back is sore, eyes are puffy,
heart pumps out an unlikely rhythm,
but I feel the detachment.

It’s minor, so miniscule
that I have to focus to find it,
but it brings me solitude.

This line, the slightest degree of separation
between self and emotion,
reminds me that it is okay.

There is no running from pain.
It folds and unfolds,
hides and seeks.

My pain is akin to that of others.
I feel as they feel
across time and space,
outside human constructs.

I aim to turn my pain into compassion —
an acknowledgement of the past and future,
a placeholder for what comes next.

Act.

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I’ve stumbled upon a familiar pain.
While previously distant,
it’s become an intimate friend.

I’ve wished things were different
on every shooting star and every
11:11 clock reading.

Foolish games, I suppose —
the acts of a child in distress
trying to find peace
in the hypothetical-verse.

Yet, I watched the clock tonight
and did the same thing.

I knew it would change nothing;
you are you,
and I am me.

We are worlds apart
when all I want is to hold you.

We are not a ‘we’ now,
even though I long to be.

We were short — fleeting.
A beginning that never began.

I didn’t think it would end,
but I guess that’s what happens
when someone puts on an act.

The show ends, the players bow,
and the theatre empties.

Only, I am left in my seat,
laden with anguish,
forgotten.

I hear the doors lock,
and the aching in my head
reverberates through the room.

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.

Untitled

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“I’m not afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship.” – Louisa May Alcott

I found this poem in my journal from early November. I have fond memories of this day. I laid in the grass with friends, soaked up the warm sunlight, talked to a cat, and drank some hot tea. However, I also had a migraine that felt like my brain was splitting in two. The following poem tries to describe that feeling.
**Updated in March 2020 

The walls move closer,
my vision goes blurry,
the pounding in my head refuses to yield
and I am crumbling—
inward on myself,
on my feelings,
on my state of existing.

Everyone is locked and loaded for a war that should have ended years ago—
a war that shouldn’t have happened.   
There is no cease-fire,
but the medics enter,
the battlefield is cleared,
and my mind stops retaliating.  

It doesn’t stop for very long
so I sit, watching, feeling, waiting
as this war settles in.

New camps of men arrive to relieve the old ones.
Fresh blood anxiously waits to spill—from the ruin
comes new life. 

The battlefield becomes overgrown with black-eyed susans,
the sun beats down rays of healing—
there are no cries or screams for mercy. 
The last drop of blood, absorbed
by the forgiving earth.