The first time I showed my grandmother my poetry,
she looked me straight in the eye and said,
"You know poets die young."
I tried to push it away for years,
just crazy words,
from a dementia-suffering old woman.
Now I can find the truth in the words.
We are a community of wandering souls,
looking for a place to call home,
looking for someone to love
that will love us back.
We're a group of people who hide pain,
who shove it into words,
as we cry silent tears,
every day becoming heavier
under the weight of the world.
No wonder we die young.
Jun 18, 2025
Jun 18, 2025 at 8:29 PM UTC
The first time I showed my grandmother my poetry,
she looked me straight in the eye and said,
"You know poets die young."
I tried to push it away for years,
just crazy words,
from a dementia-suffering old woman.
Now I can find the truth in the words.
We are a community of wandering souls,
looking for a place to call home,
looking for someone to love
that will love us back.
We're a group of people who hide pain,
who shove it into words,
as we cry silent tears,
every day becoming heavier
under the weight of the world.
No wonder we die young.