254

“Hope” is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I’ve heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

At first I just believed that it'd be more ammunition.
But then I remembered that I have a gun, too.

The doctor closed the fist-shaped hole
Of your absence,
With little black knots,
"Come back in six months;
We'll check up on you"
I'm sitting on the table,
But there is no doctor.
There is me and there is you.
You're whispering
Sweet nothings into my ear,
And tearing my stitches out,
One by one.
I can see the hole again-
"Code Blue"
Only it's not blue,
Your eyes are green.
And I when I wake up later,
You're back.
I try to talk, but you interrupt-
you tell me I'm pretty.
"Begin compressions"
Blood is everywhere.
Months pass.
You are lying in bed next to me;
You kiss me on the mouth.
"Charge to 300"
You are gone.
Please don't come back.

All the experiences
from life's coffers
I'm willing to take

To commit into text
with deliberate romanticism

My brand of unspoken poetry
with sense
only I can make

To rebut
my mind's
skeptic cynicism

They said she was sad
And maybe a little broken
Anxiety filled and socially awkward
Said her thinking was twisted
That she was a little bit of a *****
That she was insecure and weird
That her scars were self inflicted
And maybe she agrees