Poetry seems to pour out of me when I am exhausted but can't sleep. It's a particularly annoying state to be in so it may have an effect on what I write, but it seems to contribute greatly to what feels like deeper insight into my own head. This makes sense really, as the fatigue will quiet and slow my brain, allowing me to focus on one idea, but the sleeplessness makes me restless enough to turn on the light and write it down.
Before I share another slew of first draft poems, I will share two days of outfit satisfaction. It is pretty safe to assume, when you see me, that I am wearing Thrift Shop sourced cotton clothing quite possibly made by an underpaid person in a sweatshop. Don't think this doesn't trouble me, but for now my best response to this is to buy it second hand.
I am rather awful at giving my poems titles. A title always seems unnecessary to me except for that pesky purpose of cataloging. If my poems have titles it is easier to find the file again when I want it but I suspect you can tell that my titles are just slapped on as an afterthought.
A tree is radical.
It grows from roots-deep,
Wide-spread seeking stability, gripping rock and soil
As its branches reach, extend, grow higher,
The leaves reflect, gather, consider their enlightenment,
Drawing it in to nourish the roots that secure it to life.
The best way to never get hurt
Is never to love.
I don’t know about you
But I don’t have the ability to stop breathing
And still live.
There was a time when I thought I would break apart
Shattered from the pain in my heart
There were scars-
Which is perfect, really because
They remind me of all that
You taught me
About letting go.
Of all the unknowable things the most unknowable
Many do not know it.
Many others think that they do.
Of all the unknowable people the most unknowable
And the sum-total of what I know about you
Is that I will never know you.
Of all the knowable things the most knowable
And everybody knows it.
My pen chases away thoughts with
Lashings of ink,
Curling and flicking out to reach,
Seeking to make contact with the sharp whip-crack
Once it is written, it is.
After it happened there was a gut-weight
Of something that you turned to nothing.
At first, for a day perhaps,
I thought it was sadness.
Or hurt and then thought, no, it’s anger.
But it’s only the concrete certainty
That nothing was lost after all
Because there was nothing to lose.
We talk for hours and pour
As much of ourselves into each other
In the only form of intimacy that we have.
Knowing with mind and not body-
Prohibited by distance
There is only this kind of knowing available to us.
So we seek it, cherish it,
Caress it as a wave caresses the shore each time they meet
In the daily seeking and endless leaving.