Writing in this book,
finding my way in the dark,
seeking, feeling, stretching hands,
straining eyes to see inside the cave
that is my mind these days.

There is a darkness there,
a gloom,
a tomb,
and a womb
all at once.

It’s where I die but feel alive;
or live but feel like I’m dying.

This is the place where I've buried babies,
proclaimed eternal love,
remembered the playground,
recalling the push and shove.

In this space, I clear my head;
I clean my mind,
I think, ponder, and proclaim.
In this place, I stay sane.

This is the place that I’m found,
the place where my mind is sound,
where my love is strong,
where I’m write, right?
And, it’s okay to be wrong.

In this notebook,
I pay what my quiet costs;
in this notebook,
with it’s empty pages,
I find what I've never lost.

*
-JB Claywell
©P&ZPublications;
2015

lately happiness seems to come and go
like a lover who bores easily
as i don't offer them enough to stay
while the depression always returns
like an abuser, it's fists made of ravage fire
masquerading loyalty and love i know is insincere

I look at the beauty inside of all her broken pieces and I wonder how anyone, how I could have shattered such a gift.
I want you to know that I don't write poetry for you, I write it all for me, In order for me to be good enough for you, I need to be better than who I was yesterday, a week,month, year ago. I need to be enough for you I need to feel as though I am worthy, as of now ? I do not feel as though I am.
With everything being thrown at us and me having this weak and fickle heart and an imbalanced brain, I tend to go back in time , self introspect was never my friend , I was never my friend, all that is good for me is you and the poetry.
Bad for me..you are but good is not what I'm looking for , good is not what my mind thinks about , as bad as you are? You're worth all the heartache, I choose to be here, you've granted me the pleasure of being yours and pieces of me are slowly returning and we're becoming better, I pronise.
I digress, I cannot stomach the thought of all my indiscretions , I cannot tell you how sorry I am for my fear of a good thing.

She is a sweeper
She swept everything
Under the brown fuzzy rug
In her living room.

Old magazines
books
newspapers
Old photographs
records
love letters.

She swept them all
Under the brown fuzzy rug
In her living room.

One day
It turned into a hill.
All the things she swept
under the brown fuzzy rug
in her living room
turned into a hill.

But she didn't mind.
She kept sweeping
old friendships
romantic relationships
truth
lies
feelings
regrets
mistakes
apologies
forg­iveness
into the hill
under the brown fuzzy rug
in her living room.

The next day
The hill turned into a mountain
She didn't mind
And kept sweeping
Until it exploded

Broken hardwood floor
Burnt brown fuzzy rug
Everything scattered
In her living room.

She stood there
In the middle of the aftermath
Thinking
“Do i throw these all away?"

But she's a sweeper.
So she cleaned the mess
Swept everything back again
Under a new brown fuzzy rug
Laying on her basement floor.

His love
Was as fleeting
As that summer
We met.

I should have told you to stop
Right before you jump
I should have told you to try
Right before you sob and cry.

I should have hugged you tight
Right before you go for the flight.
I should have kissed you goodnight.
Right before we have the fight.

I should have told you how much you mean to me
Right before you forget me easily.
I should have told you how you've changed me
Right before you hate me.

I should have told you how much I care
Right before you go blue and wander no where
And I should have told you how much I love you
Right before the day you forget and go.

© Quenniebells, 2015