to heal is to rage
to heal is to be confused
to heal is to feel the wrath of sorrow and how it can turn a smile sour for seemingly ever.
it will be ages before you go gently into that good night
spending dusk to dawn wondering
wondering why and wondering how
how you let something so precious break between your fingers that were holding it so soft, so dear
a broken videotape in your mind replaying replaying replaying every time you could have done something, said something different but didn't.
healing is cruel, tearing every fibre out with no mercy - you are unlearning
unlearning and relearning over and over again
and surely enough, you're back on your feet, feeling ready to take the world on one more time.
but somewhere you start to stack bricks around your heart hoping it will hurt less the next time around (secretly hoping there won't be a next time around)
and maybe it'll work, maybe it won't
but every time something slips through your hands, the panic while it hits the ground and breaks into a thousand pieces remains,
no matter how gentle you are or how much you care.
Mar 31, 2020
Mar 31, 2020 at 11:02 PM UTC
to heal is to rage
to heal is to be confused
to heal is to feel the wrath of sorrow and how it can turn a smile sour for seemingly ever.
it will be ages before you go gently into that good night
spending dusk to dawn wondering
wondering why and wondering how
how you let something so precious break between your fingers that were holding it so soft, so dear
a broken videotape in your mind replaying replaying replaying every time you could have done something, said something different but didn't.
healing is cruel, tearing every fibre out with no mercy - you are unlearning
unlearning and relearning over and over again
and surely enough, you're back on your feet, feeling ready to take the world on one more time.
but somewhere you start to stack bricks around your heart hoping it will hurt less the next time around (secretly hoping there won't be a next time around)
and maybe it'll work, maybe it won't
but every time something slips through your hands, the panic while it hits the ground and breaks into a thousand pieces remains,
no matter how gentle you are or how much you care.
national poetry writing month day 1: gentle
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