Have you ever been afraid to write?
Almost like you don't want to feel what you would write about?
Yet at the same time you're craving it?
I want to write,
I want to write about the offset piece of sidewalk outside her house
that I always managed to trip over no matter how many times I had
before promising I would never trip again.
I want to write about how I would drive the long way to get to where I
was going for months after we broke up just so I could pass the road
leading to her house just to have a chance of seeing her, even if she
never noticed me.
I want to write about how I'm afraid I'll never feel the static race down
my spine when I kiss someone ever again because after she left no
kiss has ever managed to spark anything inside of me.
I want to write about how I sat for hours on the ledge where we first
kissed because I could let my tears fall down off the cliff like rain
that I hoped would water the ground enough for a flower to grow so
if she ever came back she would have something almost as beautiful
as her to see there waiting.
I want to write about how I now understand how Jesus could die for
people who hated him because even though she hates me,
I begged God to forgive her, because she knew not what she did to
me.
But I don't write any of it,
Because I’m afraid to feel like that again,
Because It's pathetic,
Because I'm afraid she will see it,
Because it's not love,
It's poetry.
And no matter what her reply was,
it's still poetry.
And even though I don't love her anymore,
she’s still my stanza,
And I'm trying to find a new poem to write.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
Have you ever been afraid to write?
Almost like you don't want to feel what you would write about?
Yet at the same time you're craving it?
I want to write,
I want to write about the offset piece of sidewalk outside her house
that I always managed to trip over no matter how many times I had
before promising I would never trip again.
I want to write about how I would drive the long way to get to where I
was going for months after we broke up just so I could pass the road
leading to her house just to have a chance of seeing her, even if she
never noticed me.
I want to write about how I'm afraid I'll never feel the static race down
my spine when I kiss someone ever again because after she left no
kiss has ever managed to spark anything inside of me.
I want to write about how I sat for hours on the ledge where we first
kissed because I could let my tears fall down off the cliff like rain
that I hoped would water the ground enough for a flower to grow so
if she ever came back she would have something almost as beautiful
as her to see there waiting.
I want to write about how I now understand how Jesus could die for
people who hated him because even though she hates me,
I begged God to forgive her, because she knew not what she did to
me.
But I don't write any of it,
Because I’m afraid to feel like that again,
Because It's pathetic,
Because I'm afraid she will see it,
Because it's not love,
It's poetry.
And no matter what her reply was,
it's still poetry.
And even though I don't love her anymore,
she’s still my stanza,
And I'm trying to find a new poem to write.
