Dear You,
If you are reading this
Whoever you are
I just want to let you know
I am so proud of you
you've come so far
and I love what you are writing

keep going

From,
Your fellow Writer

Lately
I don’t feel close
to poetry.

It feels elusive.
Unfamiliar.
Once it spoke to me.
But now it’s mute.

It sits back
and doesn’t look
at me.

If I call out
it doesn’t hear.

Lately poetry is
like that demon
I used to want
to reappear.

you will never be forgotten.
ever.
your name twisted into metaphors and colors and distractions will forever
be painted across pages and pages of her favorite brand of notebook,
no matter how many she burns
there will always be one she forgot,
and she will only find it once she had almost forgotten you.
she will find the one Papyrus notebook
and all of your metaphors and colors and disractions will come flooding back,
just like how the ocean in your eyes
flooded her heart all those years ago.

I’m happy
(I’m depressed)

I love myself
(I hate myself)

I can’t wait to live my life
(I can’t wait to die)

I am lucky to have my friends
(why do they even like me?)

I have a family who loves me
(and I continue to disappoint them)

I am an excellent student
(I can’t focus in school)

I want to travel the world
(will I even live to do that?)

I’m fine
(I’m not fine)

I’m perfectly okay
(please help me)

explorers do not really need fancy notebooks.



need a  tin compass,   in a box, quite cheap.

Liquid courage to numb the pain.
Intoxicated to forget.
Offbeat blood, sent from heart to vein.
Returns with a guest, she just met.


She closes up, leaves the bar clean.
To her apartment, around three.
In bed she lays, counting some sheep,
That mock her, thinking she will sleep.
She hears the crickets’ lonely beat.
Reminding her of creeps she meets.
Sometimes they have a potential start.
But never truly go that far.


Each night dealt with some other cards.
But slowly starts to build up guard.
She puts less time in her makeup.
But drunks continue to pick up.
She joins in shots, hopes to pass out.
But in her head she hears the shouts.
Her heart’s hunger for real love.
Her clouded thoughts rise above.


A newly turned insomniac.
No longer sleeping on her back.
Till curtains peek with starry eyes.
So bright, leaves a forceful rise.
Her sobs like strings of violin.
A void no liquor can fill in.
Despite how much she tries to drown.
The aches resonate with shrill sounds.


Another night, still found no one.
A man enters, two drinks and done.
She questions him, “What is the rush?”
Always pulled into a quick crush.
But never really tends to last.
As he mumbles about his past.
A bartender, like therapist.
As alcohol reveals the gist.


Now drunk and loud, he starts to shout.
Before his crash, he raises doubt.
He talks about, the best he lost.
Always at home, waits for the toss.
She cheers him up, when in a rut.
He gets up again, “That **** mutt!
To see her hurt, curled up in bed.
I held her paw, up till her death.”


The next night, slept pretty early.
He was perfect, brown hair curly.
Her eyes were lost, but not with lust.
Enjoyed his smells, delicious must.
A piece of her, became a part.
Happy to save his sinking heart.
Rescued him, he slept on her rug.
Named Milo, her three-legged dog.

the bear looked puzzled, sat back and said,

‘told you, no one will listen if we are quiet,

they have all lost interest’



yes.



‘do they only listen to loud folk , those that  shout

and remonstrate’



seems so.



‘do you mind’ said that bear sympathetically.



no.



sbm.

this bear appears without acknowledgement from you,

or you. not knowing the demands of an early life,

you cannot imagine the decisions, none made lightly.



you trip your tongue, then walk away. the bear arises

and sweats worry with torment until time tells.



it was  assumed that if you had not tried it,

you may still understand.



these loads are not too heavy,   the bear will find

other ways, then sleep again.



sbm.