This
This is the poem I write
When there’s no music
When I sit in the dark
My legs aching
My hands shaking
I tried writing drunk
But it only made the demons come out of
The woods
The voices had been sleeping
In the back of my mind
I’m just a selfish person
In a selfish world
I have stories
In my mind
I hold on to them
Believing it will buy me more time
Didn’t they tell you
It won’t let go
Just because you get old
But you can out grow
Some of these impulses
I can’t write
About the girl
With the brown hair
The dark eyes
The bruise behind her leg
I can’t write
About the “summer air…”
I’m beaten down
What have I become?
Someone said
Writer’s are just vampires
suck you dry
And leave you
Declaring you will never
Die
If they love you
Spoiler
(They never really love you …)
While all the stars are out tonight
I always have poems behind my eyes
I try to write
What I wish was written
I try to write
Without complaining
We will never be 17 again
never 21 again
never see you
Go through my shit again.
I always dream
Buckets under the sink
I wake up
Feeling the cold air through kitchen window frame
Why do we do the things we do
The water lines freeze
This house is made of shit
Have you ever woke up to the sound of termites ?
I still carry it in mind
And it’s frightening but I guess we do what we have to do
And so do you…
There’s a boy just over there
Shoveling the septic tank
He’s ashamed
He’s too young to figure it out
And when he’s old enough
He won’t care anyhow
And we all lived didn’t we?
We pack ourselves
With light
We fill the void with anything
Sometimes
I wake up
Because it won’t let go
It won’t let go
Just because you get old ….
And I’m afraid
Of what I’ve become
She always said
I was too much
Something else
She couldn’t label
And it’s lonely
Cold weather
When you prefer the winter…
I prefer the cold night air…
This is beautiful