"slogging" poems
#*Love the sloth in my mind
Busy sloth-ing away it’s time
The cheetah, somewhere around
Slogging away all the while
The two at loggerheads
Tearing up my heart
The Mind, a multitasker
The Heart put to tasks
Time to summon the tortoise
I surmise*#
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 6:48 AM UTC
words drift away unfettered
from whence they came,
passing like undreamed clouds
– pragmatic eyes to the sky
in a searching stare –
unsought thoughts disappearing hence
a fog bow fading into sunlight
there are days when
it comes out in my silence
there are days when
it falls down in my tears:
muse – muted in poet's pause,
heart and soul whispers
laid bare unwritten
behind parsing eyes
disregarded words let loose,
ungarnered
the way low hanging fruit
falls benign — unharvested —
shortsighted insight
from a bird's eye view
silently fermenting traces
and unfiltered memories
come and go unheeded words,
discarded like the passing
time of our lives
at times it's ludicrous
to follow down
lingering footprints
left behind callous:
when the shoe won't fit;
slogging across eroding
time-worn stepping stones
scattered on this twisted line
these feet have been walking down,
trying to make a getaway
from myself
walking away from the memories
like so many indelible footprints to escape
– while dreaming stardust into stars
in nameless constellations –
reaching out from the inside,
site unseen,
trying to experience
the empirical shape
of stifling silence
in a theatre made by chance
distilling the gifts and burdens
of trying to live a worthy life
only I'll see...
harlon rivers ... September 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC
slogging.
on.
through.
these.
identical.
empty.
barren.
hollow.
stark.
wasted.
unfulfilled.
godforsaken.
destitute.
days.
one.
step.
one.
step.
one.
step.
one.
step.
one.
step.
one.
step.
one.
step.
at.
a.
time.
every.
tttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt
wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
tttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt
yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy
ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
ticked.
out.
in.
seconds.
individually.
accounted
for.
brings.
me.
to.
my.
knees.
only.
to.
continue.
to.
crawl.
forward.
for.
if.
i.
stop.
the.
twilight.
will.
swallow.
me.
and.
this.
mind.
numbing.
purgatory.
will.
turn.
into.
a.
veritable.
living.
hell.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 9:16 PM UTC
If life is a tunnel,
It’s long and narrow.
It’s a maze of networks
In the bowels of the Earth.
Sometimes the tunnels
Are used for sewers instead
And you wind up slogging through muck.
At other times,
The tunnels are high and dry
And everything seems good.
Since the tunnels meld together
Into a near-endless labyrinth,
One can make many choices
And will dictate where one ends up.
The end result?
The Light at the end—
The opening to the surface world—
Or be trapped forever,
Wandering the heated, boiling center
With your life picked at
By nightmares.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
Brian Patrick
Plodding, trudging, slogging through the reeds
Praying for death or at the very least – rescue
Sweat and muck mingle as one
Sliding down my face and pouring over my body
Why me? I have no repair
Looking behind; not a human in sight
The arrows fly by whizzing in the dark
Into the mud I go – fearful
The light in the distance beckons
My limbs giving way to the weight
The rope catches my neck and tightens
Into the Chart House dragged to no avail
My captors start the endless mindless dance
I am at the beginning of my long goodbye
Dare I give them the dark secret they desire
Never, never …
… the blood trickles down my ***** neck.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
slogging through squelching mud or
trudging over frozen, terse, tundra or
wandering aimless featureless freeway
where are you now, what do you see?
how's the view?
*how should i know? how could i know?
should i know? why don't i know? what am i doing here?*
is it beautiful, this sky, or strikingly malevolent?
do these colors mean roiling heavens
brimming with destruction
or is that just the sunset?
do you tread lightly and enjoy the stroll,
sprintunstoppabledown the ravine
grapple with impossible terrain?
do i climb at all, move at all, progress at all?
No. Too Lazy.
Too Weary.
am i not? what if i'm not? what if i'm just
s t a g n a n t
?
Dead Weight. *am i dead weight?
am i dead?*
The Trees were once beautiful here-
until I feared fungus
rotting on the inside
eating out the inside
retching from the inside
The Trees were once beautiful here.
*"Am I at a Crossroads?" how could i know?
i follow where my fear will let me go
my fear will let me know
if it's safe to go*
only safe to stay, don't go.
Fears, Worries trip down the path,
strip away the path
heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it's off to work we go
*was the way always so barren?
what happened to my shoes?
what happened to my walking stick?
what else have i to lose?*
Though mountain I would climb
glorious stream I would hear
see swooning vine clutch lover tree;
though valiant travels I would make
--crossing marsh, scaling peak, battling desert, traversing valley,
fording river, drinking lake--
bind my eyes, blind my eyes
no pathway i may take.
the way is broken when Fear and Apprehension rule the road.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 12:16 PM UTC
thy quill is kept working hard every day
no slacking shall ever be permitted
word after word one places in array
thy many pages are suited and fitted
labor on quill take not a small timeout
much idling will result in nothingness
one furrows the field for the finest sprout
the purpose must be in gaining fullness
slogging till end of day doth come around
putting thy quill to it's maximum toll
a solid outcome shall surely abound
as the evening sun is seen to roll
oh what deserving tidings thy quill brings
toiling at all it's poetic offerings
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
Realizing a fresh life growing inside,
What thoughts coursed through my mother’s mind?
Did she gleefully welcome the news?
Or respond to it with a violent shock?
So sure, right away after her fourth baby
With four little kids still needing care
Like chicks in a coop, carrying once again
Might not have been in her scheme of things
Thus at a time when she expected it the least,
Could she beckon the new life growing inside,
With a pleasant nod of head in assent
Or with a suppressed moan of fright, I wonder!
When from nausea she started to suffer
And threw up each time when she ate
Did she curse her man in silence?
Or grow mad with her children and her fate?
Slogging through those weary days
With no respite from her routine chores
Did she get enough rest or care?
Or did she languish without a hand to assist?
Seeing her with an extended waist line
Did some nosy neighbors behind her back
Teasingly utter in hushed whispers
‘Oh, she has done it again!’
Once when I started kicking inside
Was she tickled or greatly annoyed?
When she heard the first ‘lub- dub’ of my heart
Did she feel as two hearts singing in harmony?
As her tummy grew bigger everyday
And sleepless in bed as she tossed
Was she haunted by nightmares bleak?
Or was she visited by dreams of delight?
Travelling closer and closer to those final days
Did she curse herself seeing her in the mirror
Woefully bloated and ripened into a bulge
Or did she wait my arrival in blissful expectation?
Then suddenly one day when the earthquake began
In mild tremors first, then gaining in force
Did she scream mad or cry aloud?
Or did she endure the pain in austere silence?
Then abruptly when I showed myself up
Did she feel any remorse over my ***
And see me as another liability
Added up to the girls already in line
No, I am sure she must have cuddled me close
And locked me in the warmth of her *****
For she was such a rare gift sent from heaven
A mother nonpareil in self effacing love
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 5:08 AM UTC
Slogging through endless Whitman prose and I have to make little marks
on the pages every 8 to 14 lines as my mind will not quit the wandering roam.
Blanket paragraphs blend into infinite droll, never ending whine-fest of bull
jazz…jazz singers fill the empty spaces between
the lines of drivel.
The dog barks on the veranda looking old and sad in the wind,
The water trickles through a series of rusted and holey pipes… peeling
asbestos laden lead paint tricks the mouths of children… a sick cat heaves near the Chesterfield.
Finding myself no longer interested in freelance fodder, I real from one daydream to the next
without enough pause to subconsciously journal… a subcutaneous oak shard
gives a slight reddish bump to my well defined forearm,
slight pressure sends nearly transparent ****
screaming from its melanin tomb.
The sliver remains diligent.
The sliver holds its ground,
The sliver has a new home,
The sliver wants to die here,
and never again travel the long lonesome forest road,
The sliver shines silver in the sunlight,
I shiver at the sight.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
Grim determination
Slogging through mud
Breathing through smoke
Blinded by fog
Alone
Isolated
Moving forward with no idea where my foot will fall next
Quicksand lurks
Waiting to pull me down
Backwards
Drowning in despair
These are the images
The feelings
The obstacles
That the world imposes on me
Yet I know
That it is both real
And an illusion
Designed to sap my strength
Because I am not alone
Others walk beside me
If I reach out to them, we’ll walk together
And sometimes there is a break in the smoke and fog
I can move
I can breath
I can see
Hope lights the way, a destination is in sight!
But for now
The light and clarity is just a distant memory
That I hold onto
As I continue to move forward
Through mud
Smoke
Fog
Falling back
On grim determination
To propel me forward
Aug 27, 2020
Aug 27, 2020 at 2:51 PM UTC
I am asking; who bewitched me?
With that sharp secret of voodoo,
And the potent black charms,
Cursing my money to go to waste,
In buying strong wine and sharp alcohol,
In the binge drinking down to dawn,
That the menial balance in pockets
I must buy-up a used **********
In the shaming twilight of the new day,
When others have ******* done with her,
Then me in the power of alcohol I am propelled,
Into blind appetite, I pay with nary money,
I am left with, for the un-condomized ***
With a slogging ***** the poor harlot
As if I am non-literate of the times,
When only in the time worn bag,
Pegged at the muddy walls of the shack,
In which I hoover; is stuffed a university degree,
Who bewitched me to be such a headless dude?
Using my own money to buy my own death,
I beg, I beg, I beg, I beg; to be told the wizard
I beg, I beg, I beg, I beg; to be set free,
From the voodoo tangling curse of drowsiness,
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 7:37 AM UTC
Yesterday, they said there would be a hurricane
but I didn't listen, yesterday
Today I needed supplies, food, nappies, formula
and I was out of time. I had to drive
So I set out into the dark, just me and the baby
we didn't have far to go, not far
Yesterday I wouldn't have picked up a stranger
in the street, 'cause yesterday
was when I learned my lesson
today he was slogging against the wind
and rain, with rags covering his feet
We ended up inside his space
where he carried my baby girl
and laid her next to the fireplace
and he took me down the stairs, by the hand
where he looked at me like he truly cared
and calmly chained me to the wall
where I stood tall, until I crumpled
I was never going to get out of there
All I wanted to do was feed my baby
All he wanted was my baby
I died nightly as he raised my little girl
I cried daily as I saw her become a woman
inside her completely undecided world
He bought many more women to himself
as I looked at him from the wall
hating every single breath that he took
He never noticed as I shook
while he bragged that his baby girl
was growing to be a Doctor of great repute
I just wanted to puke, she was becoming the person
I always thought she'd be, except for me...
She came to see me one day
my baby girl, lied to... standing there
She never really decided to accept what her
Daddy
had to say, as he gave to her tons of excuses
why she couldn't go below the stairs
but by then she was curious
and what she got when she was there
was me
her Mommy
in all my glory, even though I thought
she never saw me, but she got the story
and as he walked down the stairs
in the middle of the night
he didn't see her waiting
she waited for the fright
the look on his face said he did it
because he cared
but as a Doctor she didn't dare
pretend that he was slated to be long
for this world, because in her hand
where her fingers curled, was the injection
that would make sure that he kissed a long
Goodnight
he raised her with all his might
to be something I would have been proud of
She made it right...
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 6:07 AM UTC
There's something of a haze out there
even in the cold air, and through the wind.
It settles in the Midwest, as if mountains
should be towering above. But there are
none. Littering the sidewalks are these
piles of leaves smelling of old must, and
trailing on boot soles. Naked trees. Sights
so forlorn and unknown to me before, singular
and close like the wet smack of feet on the ground
when someone close to me trips. When I trip.
Slogging through Fall like nothing at all.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 4:31 PM UTC
I heard a bird sing today
And stopped still along my way;
My churning thoughts forgotten
In the haunts of yesterday.
Merely for a moment then
I was that younger soul;
Worries gone and wonder found
Atop a snow-capped knoll.
But in another instant
Just the breeze was at my ears.
As I sank into the present
And lost again those stolen years.
Yet, my heart was lighter.
Those problems not so dire.
I just heard a little bird today
While slogging through the mire.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 2:43 AM UTC
On the court
she is a calculator
Texas Instruments tattooed on her shoulder
On the court
she is a fire chief
Barking orders like a high strung dalmatian
On the court
she is Agent J
Picking physics-loving Tiffany out from the monster crew
But here
she is waist-deep
in the muck of academia
slogging ever more slowly
through the murk
toward the crisp vellum
of someone else's
wanting to know
through the mire
toward the cubicle prison
of taking orders
from bosses or
for burgers
On the court
she is a calculator
Texas Instruments tattooed on her shoulder
In her mind
she climbs the walls
of the slime-sided well
On her terms
she lifts her face to a sunlight
that is hers alone.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
Late night at the Bar,
The neon sign said time to go,
Funny, when I got there it was all
Welcoming and overenthusiastic,
Garish, like a parade of clowns
With balloons that just got lost
Loosed, to the winds. I had a few—
Too many and wrote a broke poem,
All alone surrounded by the clank
Of wood from a pole and clicks of levers
As the glistening 'patrons' shimmied their
Tithes to the used machines of *****
Pinned and the green tables pooled
And the women, who desperately looked
At only you, after you looked at them
And the indifferent, tallish Barman,
Who kept pouring smallish dreams
In a shot glass. I stumbled, swirled out
And kissed the tar as was my want,
Every newcomer slogging in
Simply ran with not even noticing,
As I laid on the ground, they knew
That their time was soon coming.
That's called simpatico, or is it
Solidarity, maybe, whatever?
Anywho, I dusted my self off
And hightailed it back home
Before the broad, my old lady,
Jezebel, caught me on the sly.
The 'Queen of Sheba' was already
There— prostrated on our bed
Waiting to nail me. My only excuse,
The muses— she wasn't buying,
I said baby, 'I ain't tryin' to sell
You no lie. The words, they come
And they go, like a train that never stops
But you bestbe going, you best be jump in'
On that steel Goliath and ride that son to the gates
Of pearl and peace, them goldilock rays and then I said,
Hush, my little 'rock-a-bye' lady, you shush now,
My fresh night moon of lilly flower, we's gonna
Make like nubile creatures, all naked and free,
There ain't no clocks little darling, there's
Just you an' me and all the rest of herstory,'
She bought that line!
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
Inspired by Time by Hans Zimmer
slogging through the snow
weighed under
the weight of all i know
baggage on my back
in desperate need
of anything but facts
and there she stands
the wind whistling through her hair
and the fingers of her outstretched hands
her face is flushed
but her legs are pale
i must
work harder
work faster
she'll catch cold
in that billowing
pink sundress
unless i run fast
and grab her fully
in my strong embrace
and kiss her sweetly
spreading my warmth
to her numb face
but these bags
won't let me act
or else not fast enough
she collapses
landing rough
on her delicate knees
i can tell
that she needs me
so i cast aside
all on my back
the suitcases
the backpacks
and dufflebags
pounds and pounds
leave my shoulders
and drop
to the white ground
with a quiet, crunchy thump
her face is falling
im growing frantic
taking off everything and anything
that might slow me down
it seems as though the snow is getting deeper
the closer i get to her
she's still falling
as if in slow motion
long curly hair
swirling behind her
like one million crescent moons
im leaping snow drifts now
but i will get to her soon
her face slaps
the ground
and the cry of one billion snowflakes
echos magnified in my ear
i reach her
and turn her over
and see a face
blue and quiet
with frozen tears
stopped halfway down her cheek
and suddenly
mine are flowing free
if only...
if only i had dropped everything sooner
i thought
as this living man
cradled someone
who was not
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
Late night at the Bar,
The neon sign said time to go,
Funny, when I got there it was all
Welcoming and overenthusiastic,
Garish, like a parade of clowns
With balloons that just got lost
Loosed, to the winds. I had a few—
Too many and wrote a broke poem,
All alone surrounded by the clank
Of wood from a pole and clicks of levers
As the glistening 'patrons' shimmied their
Tithes to the used machines of *****
Pinned and the green tables pooled
And the women, who desperately looked
At only you, after you looked at them
And the indifferent, tallish Barman,
Who kept pouring smallish dreams
In a shot glass. I stumbled, swirled out
And kissed the tar as was my want,
Every newcomer slogging in
Simply ran with not even noticing,
As I laid on the ground, they knew
That their time was soon coming.
That's called simpatico, or is it
Solidarity, maybe, whatever?
Anywho, I dusted my self off
And hightailed it back home
Before the broad, my old lady,
Jezebel, caught me on the sly.
The 'Queen of Sheba' was already
There— prostrated on our bed
Waiting to nail me. My only excuse,
The muses— she wasn't buying,
I said baby, 'I ain't tryin' to sell
You no lie. The words, they come
And they go, like a train that never stops
But you best be going, you best be jump in'
On that steel Goliath and ride that son to the gates
Of pearl and peace, them goldilock rays and then I said,
Hush, my little 'rock-a-bye' lady, you shush now,
My fresh night moon of Lilly flower, we's gonna
Make like nubile creatures, all naked and free,
There ain't no clocks little darling, there's
Just you an' me and all the rest of herstory,'
She bought that line!
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
wither goest he?
traveling, traversing, rehearsing
the good doctor lingers in the doorway out
sometimes forgotton, but always, ever, perpetually
omnipresent
dictations and suggestions, hunches corrupting
helping one last time to cauterize, sterilize
cutting off the umbilical cord to humanity
nothing to slow it down, nothing to hinder, nothing to feel
cilia burned, silly-a me to allow it
is it a neccesary burden. a beast with a broken back
still slogging, blindly, towards an imaginary finish line
hoping there is only darkness there. rest. peace
he misses his shell. the whole world is asbestos
this is his hell. the soothing water sputters the flames to smoke
and miles away, tonto points and deciphers.
********* is what it says, soaring eagle
the white man is so trivial
primitive in his circular command center, melting legos to heat his hearth
hiring ****** to eat his heart
a trapper keeper. a pointed rose. a poisoned tip. a mental rip. a freudian slip
this place has no ass. I mean.. class. class is what i meant.dammit
surroundings never touch the surface of my skin
and quantum physicists only complicate this perspective.
**** your logic! and **** mine worse..
why must everything be rehearesed? this is a curse.
a verse of a song I sing with a gun to my head
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
*I just read some poetry
in a big collection of real poets.
I was living in a fools paradise.
I thought I was getting better.
After three long years slogging
out one piece of crap after the other.
I have decided
if you read a poem
you feed your soul for one day.
if you write a poem
you sentence your soul
to a lifetime
of self doubt and frustration.*
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 10:15 AM UTC
The lights outside the train
keep rushing like moving stars,
they bridge the gap that sets our world apart.
Every day it is a come and go,
night and day blurs by
whether it rains or it begins to snow,
like a million diamonds in the hands of the poor
while searching for food in an empty store.
What could I have done
with all of that time that was lost,
half of my dreams were smashed,
left as dust, and anger and pain
and perhaps some disdain,
for those who could have it,
but in truth have I even done
something to grab them?
No doubt I've been shown
in some delirict vision,
what it's like to glimpse sincerity,
or was it,
perhaps it was common diversity,
in thoughts and rhymes,
ways to know why
I sit here alone, thinking of us
and how the times have gone by.
If there is an end I dont see it draw near,
my soul,
too late for the hunter's growl,
to matter,
when my thoughts shine darker than coal,
and flatten,
the notions of blinded devotion,
I had for the truth.
Because fire burns the demons inside,
I tend to forget the coldness in your eyes,
slogging through this endless divide,
a storm, subsided, has severed our ties,
now lies. And pain and pain.
If I could I would throw my heart away.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC
Fear of failure had me slogging
Constructing these walls of limits around me
And I’ve been confined in this prison for decades now
Consumed by my own self-made leviathan
Seeking for perfection, which smells not in this world
Procrastination, had me shackled on the same level
Letting time passing by, wasted
Assuming what the world may assume if may I fall
I may sleep in disgrace with fear,
Walking on the prickly path, away from your gashing eyes
I may drown in your scornful laughter, a stagnant pond
Of discourage for men
Whilst ageing not to be young no more
We grow naive with poor minds, weary souls
Thus age caries no wisdom nor oomph
To rectify errs of the past, though far ahead still glows
The lit of hope, the spirit to rise from the dust
To release my soul free and disrobe the coat of fear
To stand tall and soar above the horizon and reach the stars in the sky
Though I may never catch the time I let to flew away
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 5:05 AM UTC
My feet are stuck:
tacked down like so much carpeting
and the clock is fast and slow
and frozen and returning to the same place
too quickly for the eye to consume.
And behind my head whirl and blur
And twirl and slur a dozen blades
thrown like so many cutting words
at my poor preposterous head.
And my steps are slogging,
syrup poured up to my knees.
And my arm outstretched
in (silent) desperation
cannot find what it seeks,
which may be realization
or escape,
but either way is battered
like so much cake
by those lexicographic knives.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
I wish to be drunk
If only to taste the lips
of an empty bottle
[there is no form here]
Laughing distantly
from the other room
Quiet inner-sobbing
[there's no one left]
Not sure if you
believe it, not sure
if I do.
[just move on, it's so much easier]
Slogging through mud
I've clearly lost my shoes
Bare skin settles deep
[what's left in this for you, for me]
Silence is consent
And I am ne'er hell-bent
Fashion-forward
Shoehorned selections
Kindling nethers to get attention
I am the sincerest form of flattery
[breaking tradition now//self-created]
Giving myself too much credit
Failing for son of the year
Searching...
Searching...
Searching...
[File not found.]
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
Dear Younger Me.
The days ahead are dark.
There will be points
Where you will close your eyes
Burning, stinging, tear-torn eyes
And it will look no brighter
When you open them again.
You will reach for the light switch
Only to discover
The dual bulbs
Clustered under the shade
Are doing all they can already.
You will walk upstairs
In the witching hour
The dark scary still hour
And even though there is nothing
Nothing logical to fear
The still scary, dark hour
And the night will surround you
Press in on you
And you’ll swear each step is a mouth
Waiting to swallow you alive.
You will leap from light switch to light switch
Because the dark
The cursed, smothering dark
Is a fate worse
Than sinking into a molten floor.
Dear Younger Me.
The darkness does not win. Not against the light.
Remember that.
Even if you, yourself, don’t feel light.
Even when you feel bogged down
Like the weight of a thousand worlds
Rests on your shoulders
And you’re slogging through swamp mud, besides.
There is light, and hope, and peace
Peace like none you have ever known
Waiting on the other side.
And if I could spare you the tears
The ache that tears your chest inside out
The lump that threatens to stay
Choking you
Breath by breath
Forever
If I could spare you that
You would never grow.
You would never become me.
Broken. Imperfect. Beautiful.
Stronger, holding tight to the Savior’s hand.
I wouldn’t trade all the stars to be you again, me.
But someday you’ll get here. April 2018.
You’ll write a poem. Me to you. Heart to heart.
You’ll look around. You’ll look back.
And there will be light again.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC