There is a dead beetle on the floor in the bathroom.
It has been there for weeks.
Someone must have noticed it but paid it no mind.
More than someone.
Someones.
No one has bothered its carcass.
Its legs are curled in at odd angles, not unlike an infant sleeping.
Someone would notice an infant sleeping.
An infant sleeping on the floor of a bathroom.
Or an infant dead in a bathroom on the cold, grey tiles.
The color of its dark body is in stark contrast to the light floor, but still it is ignored.
Have I been bright enough in this life to stand out?
Am I light against the dark?
Or dark against the light?
Will I be remembered?
As I slide through the experience of living, I don't know what impression I've made.
Am I the dead beetle?
Will I be the dead beetle?
My life has not been bold.
One may only presume the same of the beetle.
There are too many people in this world for me to be a true stand-out.
I merely exist.
No matter my color against the background of life, I am simply waiting to be swept away.
As inconsequential as a dead beetle in the bathroom with little attention paid.
There is a saying that everyone dies twice.
First when you leave the mortal realm.
The second time when your name is last spoken and your memory ceases to exist amongst the living.
What if you never live and are paid no mind.
Can you really die then?
What if I am not even the beetle?
What if I'm less than a drop in the bucket in the universe and I slip through the cracks of society?
At least the beetle gets a poem.
May 29, 2023
May 29, 2023 at 4:46 PM UTC
I am not a sailor.
I desire to run.
Confine me not to a puddle dependent on the wind.
Direct me to the forest, the hills, and I will create my own draft,
as I speed across the ground,
flying over earth to distances greater than the confines of your wet berth.
No, I relish a solid state of matter beneath my feet.
I am a fire sign.
Warning: do not get wet.
Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 2:04 PM UTC
My truth has stretch marks.
It expands and contracts to accommodate your fragile ego.
Expands.
Bandaging, covering the wounds you incurred, when something far more serious is needed for triage.
The words you need to hear.
"It's fine."
"I'm okay."
Am I?
I cannot be certain anymore.
Contracts.
Retreating within the depths of myself to compartmentalize and to please you.
An inner monologue of comfort.
"It's fine."
"I'm okay."
Am I?
I cannot be certain anymore.
What has become of the truth when it can be twisted and turned, expanded and contracted, stretched and warped?
Is it still viable?
Is it okay?
Is it fine?
I cannot be certain anymore.
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 2:29 PM UTC
Sorry is a word.
It has sounds and syllables.
It carries meaning,
although, sometimes it doesn't.
Is your sorry empty, full, half-empty, half-full?
Do you put the weight of truth behind it to lift it up?
When you make the sounds are you just making the sounds?
Are you simply enunciating the consonants to make them resonate
with the hard "E" at the end?
Is your sorry just a word?
Or is it a feeling?
A feeling that tears you up inside so that you must utter this word
to allow your hurt and pain to escape?
Your mouth, the portal by which the truth slides free,
by which you unburden:
is this aperture the escape route of your anguish?
Or are you just creating noise?
If you are sorry, REALLY, Really, really sorry,
show me that you can put together more than five letters.
I want to feel your word and the honesty built around it.
Show me that you embody each of these letters
with all of the cells of your being.
Sorry is just a word,
but when and if you choose to use it, make certain it is so much more.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 4:25 PM UTC
My doorbell is broken.
So is my heart.
I can fix my doorbell.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
They say that silence is golden...whatever that means.
They say that "no news is good news."
They say that to really understand someone, you need to "walk in his shoes."
Give me a break; cut me some slack; take a chill pill.
Who are they? And what gives them the right?
The silence I'm in is black.
It is not golden.
It does not shine with light.
It is empty, earth shattering heartbreak.
That is my silence.
No news is not good news: this doesn't even make sense as a math or logic problem.
No news is never good news when you're dangling off of the edge of your emotional downfall-- holding on by your fingertips.
No news is not good news when you're struggling to keep your head above water, but your body is becoming heavy with doubt.
And my shoes? They don't even fit me properly half of the time.
So tell me, who are they?
Because I want to see their golden silence, understand how their lack of news is a positive... and I bet their shoes don't fit me either.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 4:09 PM UTC
I can drain my feelings onto paper via ink as much as I want
My heart remains just as full
just as empty,
just as burdened,
just as abandoned.
I need a miracle
Or an exorcism.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 1:55 PM UTC
I lost ten pounds in three days
It's easier to leave the house without breakfast
It's easier to leave the house without worrying about future meals
It's easier to leave the house without those ten pounds
It's easier to leave the house without caring about your hair
It's easier to leave the house without caring about anything
Anything but you
Carrying the memory of you is the hardest thing I've ever done
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
Sleeping for what felt like an eternity
Was really only an hour
When the time I spent with you was a blink
In the forever of my life.
I wanted to write a book of us
But you left me only a page
For myself,
And for you, together
If I could stay unconscious forever
Our book would be endless
Chapters upon chapters
Of love without loss
Yet here I am
Gasping for breath, startled from my slumber
Your face in my dreams, a surge of adrenaline
Blank pages in my lap
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
I tell myself that I’m okay – I’m not
I tell myself that I don’t love you – I do
I pretend that you hate me – I know you don’t
I wish you didn’t love her anymore – you can’t stop
I wish you could tell me what I want to hear – you won’t
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC