A tap on my shoulder, And a wink, From you, When you saw me walking. All I needed, To make sure. Now I know. This isn't normal. And even though I know. I really know you're never there. I still spend the breaks, On the same place Every day. Still hoping, You will pass me in the hallway
I'm writing a small poem every day, about how I feel or the world around me. This is #13
Why do I miss you so much? Why can’t I go a day without thinking about you? You’re going to be far away soon, And I won’t ever get to see you. Why am I so attached to you? Why do these feelings feel so natural? Why do you make me want to follow you Wherever life takes you, Listen to every word you say, Hear your gorgeous laugh every day? Why do I want to be with you always? Even now, laying on my couch at 3 am, I wish you were sitting next to me, With your arm around me, Pulling me closer to you. I would lay my head on your shoulder, And everything would be fine. But you won’t ever be here with me again, So I must make “fine” on my own. Why is it so hard?
The support of a hand, A game-changing palm clasp, Like a coach to the shoulder pads Of an athlete. I don't feel I deserve it, But I don't want to sway a friendly gesture Because then do I feel I denied help Sent my way. I need that tangible gift, Whether in a corn maze of doubt Or in a harvest of success. It's amazing, it's a grace To have received at least one someone's hand Staccato your back, your shoulder, Even a friendly fist-nudge That lunges your motivation forward. How blessed I have been To have had many people Non-sensually give what I cannot see Yet what I perceive indelible: Their blessing and cheers for me That I feel when a hand furls 'round my shoulder And then fades away to let me harness that I.V. of assurance Injected with sound decision and faith. For those who never felt this kind of gesture, Let these words be a pat on your shoulder. You're doing just fine.
This year has taught me to relish that one beat of time when someone pats me on the back or the shoulder; it really is a seal of hope however it comes.
For when the sun burns and turns colden, The bright yellow spurns from beauty golden, to a lack of interest for a system relying on light to pour; listen though sound travels less in haste, it makes our bodies bounce.
For when the girl is burned and trounce The bright mind spurned from evening gown to a lack of interest to assist him. He relied on her light to pour; her to listen though sorry travels, lest after distaste, it makes us pronounce.
For when a mistake is burned into history. The stone cold as etched again, and sought. Good will may be borrowed, entrusted, stolen, but rarely bought.
For when a daybreak creeps into horizon. The stones thrown as glass houses brought Goodly upon their foundations, in the ***** eyes of all sunspot.
May those coloured fractals of which lurch deftly. Return to shared *****, directly, swiftly. Freshly.