poetry about life
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I didn’t forget My childhood memories Of hiding my suffering Of silently struggling And endlessly wondering Why all this was happening Why God didn’t love me. I didn’t forget My years wandering, Of helplessly stumbling, Of hopelessly drowning And constantly questioning Why I was still hurting Why I couldn’t love me. I didn’t forget My
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They’ll make you fight a thousand battles So that they can win the war By wearing down your armor And wearing out your sword. When the fighting’s finally over And their victory’s ensured, They’ll be no one left to remember What you were fighting for.
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I knew we didn’t have money, But I didn’t know we were poor- Until I ran out of fingers to count The number of pieces I returned. When we were playing a game, To check our privileged status And my hands were full of Empty air. A ledger of my societal debt.
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I don’t even know your name,But I know you own two cars:You drive one every day,But the other you never use. I know you have two children,A boy around 9 and a girl around 5.They are both in school,And they both have brown eyes. I know you used to have a garden.The dug-up patch can
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How are you still alive and breathingWhen you haunt me as I’m dreaming?No contact since our indefinite separation,I expected to hear news on occasion.Now I wonder if we existed at all. Should I feel distressed or relievedThat we’ve become nothing more than a memory?Only digital records kept in social media posts,Red-eyed photos and half-forgotten jokes,Serve
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I’m overrun with possibilities of what I could do, where I could go, and who I could be. Instead of making a choice- I freeze. So I can be all of these things and none of them, all at once.
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I almost burned down my apartment Trying to erase the final traces Of the mistakes that I’ve made. But my memories only fade, Like the stupid line tattoo That took a year to remove. What’s been written can’t be changed. Stains in ink as black as sin, on the page and on my skin. Washed
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It’s not about the stupid tattoo. Just like it wasn’t about the party he skipped, or the ranch he never took me to, or the Valentines date he let his best friend crash. It isn’t about the birthday left uncelebrated, or the coffee dates I arranged, or the parties I planned, hosted and cleaned up
Bringing Mae Flowers 