You don't know this yet,
but I'm gonna meet you
in a few days
and on the 13th of December
you'll let me be yours

My mother will hate you
for a couple of years,
but I'll leave the house
i grew up on
just to be next to you;
all the hard work and sleepless nights
will be worthwhile

Sixty months after that,
we're going to get married
on the 18th of June,
and our children will be happy,
i promise

I'm aware of all this stuff
because, twenty three years later,
I'm still in love with your laugh,
your jokes, your rants
and changing moods

I'll always be thankful
for that first conversation we had
eight thousand, three hundred
and seventy seven
days ago

I guess this serves as a warning.
To the friends and the loved ones
members of an active social order
wanting a life of something more than disorder.

Poetry is not a breath.
It is not an escape into a lesser abyss
that leaves you scratch free.
Or an opening and interesting guarantee.

Instead
it grabs inwardly at you.
It coaxes the trolls from the deepest
corners of the forest that you had
long since banished and left behind
and wanted to rid your mind of and
never wanted to see again.

The fire that had been stomped out
is reborn.

The crashing waves that broke the ship
fight again.

And poetry reopens the wounds
that you had hoped would heal
with time and with suppression
that had once filled and consumed with aggression.

Poetry is anger.

Poetry leaves the poet
drowning
in a river of currents when it flows
but out in the baking sun when
it stops.

The issue is
for a poet to be happy
with her work

she must also feel the
unhappy in her life.

i'm not sure how it works for normal people.
but i know how it worked for me.

it was june.
i was 21.

i got a call.
only a few months they said.
but i didnt understand, he's only 5.
how could this be.
how could god take something so new and special to me.

a few months ended up being 3.
he was buried in a kid-sized grave.
a family broken apart and a boy to never come of age.

before this loss i always thought there was a point.
a plan.
god must have things under control right?

but this made me think.
how could this little one suffer a short life and painful death of there was a loving god?

didnt seem loving to me.
didnt seem like it was real anymore.
didnt seem like there was a purpose anymore.

i dont think i comprehended death fully until that moment.
when i saw that little body lowered into the ground and realized it would never become big.
does it all just really stop?
is there no purpose?

I miss you
I long for you
I would **** to have you by my side

Words like these give you the pleasure of hearing them, don’t they? But little do you know, these words come out from sorrow, despair. Delusion, perhaps.
It could be months before I get you back, it could be years… it could be… never. I may never fall back into your arms again. I might as well stay as I am; broken beyond repair.

I knew I’d lose you I just didn’t have the slightest clue it would be so soon, so… What’s the word? Effortless?
I guess so.
I began losing you that day, little at a time, piece after piece. Fights followed by cold behavior. I started going days without hearing from you, and I began wondering, how on earth do you manage to stay away from the person you love the most and not feel a thing? And then it hit me that this question worked its best on me, maybe it all meant a little something, to me. Maybe, just maybe, you were my favorite thing in the world but I was the least worthy of your time and attention. God knows how much I loath one-sided affection.

My dearest friend, my ever lasting love. You were more than just words. Your beauty was beyond my understanding. I remember laying in bed, wondering, what have I done, that was so purely good, to be blessed with a soul like yours?
You understood me with every word I said, you memorized all of my concepts. And I let you slip away. And I will always hate both of us for letting go of something irreplaceable.

You're no longer here and it all seems pointless cause I write as much as I can but no ink nor thought, no word nor letter has the power to bring you back to me.

I miss you. It sounds pleasing at first, but if you read between those three words, you’ll find what I call… Grief.