Sometimes, World Poetry Day is missed because of brutal fucking ignorant mental illness lapses. Anxiety and depression. The pneumonia was easier, gang. By a mile.
Listening to confessions from a mother
And songs respecting the struggle of abortion
I cried
At least the baby didn’t die
She said
I smiled for the first time
In miles
She’s been in
The car with
Me
Us
Half of
Gone
Many times
Can’t talk about it
Not to someone
Being so nice
To me
An indicator
Of true illness
Doing it again
Misplacing comfort and kindness
Where I want spark
Two lengths of jumper cables
Battery leads corroded
Green
A color I knew
Wearing it in the crowd
Staring the stage
Wanting my own light
Coveting conversation
Forsaken for
Hugs that don’t need feet
Those come from both
Sets of Arms
I’m told
Cemented you chipped me
Not enough to be broken
But enough to be surrounded
By ceramic pieces
Mosaic
Disconnected enough
That every edges finds
Your soles
When you get out of bed
In the morning.
Can you sprain your
Diaphragm crying?
Or is that just
Heartache
Setting up housekeeping?
Rattling pans
And nailing down
Carpet
Planning to stay
Until the foundation
Gives
Tucked with wool
Set aside from
The destruction
Handed gently
Handled
Purpled with
Neglect
Color of a fresh
Bruise
Waiting for the
Ease of pain
That comes with
Greens and yellows.
Twitching to a
Touch
Melting to a
Mouth
Stealing comfort
Even though
It’s freely given.
Some things
Can’t talk about.
Not yet.
Dark Yarn Productions 