i keep expecting
creativity
and inspiration
and catharsis
and exhalation
and something big
out of this tragedy
but i seem to just be
sad
i keep expecting
creativity
and inspiration
and catharsis
and exhalation
and something big
out of this tragedy
but i seem to just be
sad
so many days
and yet, things are still the same
so much/
so whirlwind/
and yet, things are still the same
we’ll continue on with our daily tasks —
the chores that need to be done/
the bagels we eat every morning/
the minutes will continue to tick past/
and we’ll get back into patterns and routines and the mundane/
but things will never be the same
trying to remember
what happened in four days
that all blur together
but also seem dissonant
like opposite ends of the piano
keys plunking notes
irreverently
like the states we drove through
were whole countries
while we tried
to grapple
mentally
and physically
like
night
and day time
aren’t parts of one whole cycle —
the world is filled with dusks and dawns
and rain sometimes falls where there’s sunshine
and rainbows can welcome
you
home
it’s ok
if you have nothing to say
it’s ok
if you’re still processing
emotions/
cataclysms in your heart-mind
it’s ok
if you can’t quite cry yet
you will
you will
even
unable
to open her eyes
or speak specific words
she still twitched her mouth and hand
to let me know
she knew
i was there
and that is so much
comfort
just some
morning pages
morning poetry
to get the day going
into the wild
into the craziness
into the sad sad adventure
that is today
~~~
seeing
the babies
step up
to be adults
is great
is great
is great
to see
~~~
green left
maroon right
blue body
and yellow hood
a sweatshirt
for all
for everyone
to be
cozy cozy
autumn
~~~
i can’t really concentrate
today
and that’s okay
that’s okay
~~~
who knows
how much
is leaving my brain
and staying
in any one given moment
~~~
teeny tiny poems
for a big big day
wild
i can’t see where i’m going
the path ahead of me
is dark
and i brought no flashlight
but i gotta keep walking
i gotta keep walking
cryptic poems
are no fun
when they’re written for the pure purpose of being obtuse
but cryptic poems
that come fully fleshed
from the depths of your mind
and you had no idea where it came from
or even
what in the world it’s trying to confide
but it’s here
it’s out
in the world
those cryptic poems are okay.
wild
slingshot
whiplash
speed between
panic-induced emotionality
and depressive apathy
with absolutely nothing in-between
how lost
am i
that i don’t
feel things
except panic
~~~
stressing
less
than i probably should be
given
circumstances
but more
than i probably would be
without
anxiety
(are they related?)
(probably)
~~~
maybe
some day
i’ll finish a
whole big-ass poem
(but probably not today)