does the Sun know
of our orbit?
does the Sun care?
does the Sun know
how many
are at her mercy?
does the Sun know
how many
subsist
on her glory?
do you know
you are the light
in my heavens?
do you know I exist?
Tag: poetic
-
when did love
become
something swallowed
& choked on,
stuck in your throat?
no longer a song
to be sung,
nor a star
to be chased,
not a promise made,
not a promise kept?
i never meant
for love
to be a hearth so hated.
never thought
i’d one day covet
walls of ice.
no, i never knew
i’d guard my center
as if it were gold,
somehow
forgetting
what happens to hearts
so long left alone—
yeah,
one day i found
my gold
had become coal
-
and life—
for too long,
it kept me from you.
but I’ve decided
no one—
not the fates,
nor the hand of god
can keep me from knowing
the taste
of your breath,
or the very song
of your heartbeat.
I’ve decided
I could write novels
just about the way
your eyes crinkle
when you smile.
And I’ve decided
there is a novel
in the way
your gaze
erases a lifetime
of being invisible.
-
if I could bleed the past
and spill it from my veins,
these scars would tally
each memory erased.
but it’s an impossible thing.
you tried to make sense
of the scars
only you could see.
like going to the nurse
and swearing
you’re on the edge of death
and her insisting
you’re fine.
that she ran “every test.”
but there’s a burning
somewhere deep—
somewhere
only you can see.
next— your mother’s palm.
wise. knowing.
surely it can glean the truth.
you expect her to say something
like, “you’re sweltering,”
or, “you’re frozen.”
anything other
than those lies—
but she swears nothing’s wrong.
even tells you, go—
sleep it off.
so you accept
that the world’s gone insane.
how can you prove
the depth of your pain?
-
joy:
a dangling carrot.
i lurch, grasp.
air, mockingly thin.
and this is that thing I do.
give
just enough,
to make it hurt
when I am exposed
for the nothingness
that I truly am.
there used to be
a winter cyclone
in my heart;
so ready to sing
the fury of its love.
I wrapped my hands
round my throat,
choked it of life.
I soon forgot
what it meant
to have a voice.
now
my heart:
an empty auditorium.
too big
to be this hollow.
drop a pin.
I still remember
when laughter echoed,
like light that danced
from wall to wall.
and I remember
when passion thrummed,
when caring
wasn’t danger.
now there’s dust
suspended
in time—
nowhere to go. everywhere
to hide.
there— clamping, yet again.
round my throat,
hidden hands,
strangling
the words
that fight
to reach my tongue—
begging me
to fill this hall
with something—
anything—
other than the sound
of silence.
still,
i remain voiceless.
-
You are alive. You won’t be forever. That is the poem. Why should there be more?
This is your one life. What are you doing with it? Why wait until you’re on the other side to become acquainted with what should have been — with what should have been done? Why weep without reason? Why wait to know?
It is so strange that we can be reminded of our mortality — to read the words, “you won’t be here forever” — and for the reality of our finality to not register.
Why should the poet labor? Why should the artist toil over illustrations and visualizations of what it might be like for that final day to come — for you to be laying on your deathbed, confronted with the end? Choking on words unspoken. Drowning in potential never realized. Like a sun buried beneath the horizon who never got to rise.
Why do the metaphors need to be shoved down our throats for us to get a clue that we won’t be here forever? No. We will not. So why do we wake up each morning without ever really waking up? Sleepwalking through each and every day. Rinse and repeat. Why do we not drink in our aliveness?
Who among us can truly say that, if time is money, they’ve invested every penny beautifully, wisely? Why do we squander the only true currency?
This life is all we’ve ever known. We don’t remember a before. How can I even think about it now? I don’t remember the beginning — forgive me if I don’t have a good sense of the end. But you must. You must think of death as your worst enemy and your greatest friend. And you must rage — rage against him, fight each and every day, that you may live to the full.
Truthfully, do I tell you, that when the Reaper comes, it will not be with a scythe. No, it will be with kindness in his eyes. You will take his hand. He will take yours. You’ll be ready to bid this earth goodbye. Unburdened by regret. Unburdened by what ifs, because you truly lived.
There is no rest for one who carries questions to their grave. Ask them now. Ask all of your questions now. Get every what if and what then out of your system. Spend your entire life asking and answering.
They say in death, all answers are revealed. I don’t think that’s true. I think in death, all questions are revealed. Did I live truly? Did I live honestly? Did I love kindly? Were my years wasted — and if so, how many?
Again, I remind you: time is our currency. Do not waste a penny.