What we're left with
on days poems don't hold us
On the day when
the light grows too loud
and the sun needles
through your thinning patience,
may the stones stay still
and the path disappear.
And when your voice
catches in your throat
like a forgotten name
and silence becomes
second skin,
may the sky fold in
without drama.
When the bright idea
burns a hole
straight through your chest
and every answer
starts to taste like tin,
may no one come
with tea or touch or comfort
just you,
barefoot.
May the stubbornness of earth be yours,
may the haze of doubt be yours,
may the drift of the tide be yours,
may the ache of beginnings be yours.
And so may a fast
wind strip these layers
of hope from you,
a sudden gust
to leave you only
with what’s true.
I think poems can hold both the balm and the burn. What do you turn to when you need honesty more than hope?
This Is The Life I Want
i want to feel the ease in my days. travel wherever i want to whenever i want with whomever i want. eat so many gooseberries my hair grows till the dip in my waist. feel pleasure without wanting to return the favor every time. not look at it as favor. feel deserving of the riches i receive. feel worthy of accepting gifts. slather body lotion and make my…
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Bonus post this Saturday! 🧡
"may the sky fold in
without drama." This line (and so many others) is golden. I love it. Your poem builds and tumbles onto itself as it goes along, and then it ends in a tiny, quiet space. Great job!