Poetry?


I am sitting in a coffee shop
on a warm, bright monday afternoon
I smell toast toasting
And my chai is warm on the palms of my cupped hands.

My heart is aching.
For no particular reason
just heavy with a few purposeless days
and a misalignment of minds.

Leave me not to my own devices.
I look for remnants of criminal activity,
forage for bodies buried under the new growth
and pick at healing wounds.

Whatever found injustice will have been teased out.
Undisturbed, it would simply lie down and rest
somehow peacefully
had I not disturbed its grave with my incantations.

Perhaps instead of charging these tired bones
and chipping away at the remodeling
I could shroud the remains of an empty cause
and let Lazarus sleep.

Advertisements

This is how I see you:
modern composition book, deep sleepy breaths,
pages of hand scribbled notes on the civil war, on the history of ireland.
Skin that has seen lots of sun it its day.
short sleeve plaid button-up shirt
white hair.
blue bic pen back on the page- something you were dreaming?
Left handed. I love that.

this is me without you.

my bed.

my things.

quiet and still and mad.

I’m probably wrong, but I am savoring the anger.

Its like a loose tooth that hurts to wiggle back and forth;

but the blood tastes alkaline familiar,

and the pain is deliciously distracting.

I’ll pull out the tooth eventually.

But right now, I would rather worry it,

alone.

Sometimes things get a little overwhelming.  Like school, and a life that is just moving so fast.

But coffee helps.

And “emo” music helps.

And hiding alone in a public place helps.

But I suppose eventually you have to get back out and talk to people.

Maybe in a little while.