My mom used to write letters at the end of each year, to keep friends and family up to date on the happenings in our family.
I hadn’t written any poetry in a while. So, in the middle of the night, I wrote a little update letter of my own.
I find it funny,
not in a humorous way,
that I have hope.
That I can still have hope.
…I just keep holding on.
The gods of the heavens,
both day and night,
each had twelve,
their children of plight.
Though separate are they,
the two are one,
the thunderous sky,
and blazing sun.
Scents of countless delicacies combine.
Enticements abounding.
Sounding china and silver sit atop the din.
Conversation flourishing.
The dream lost,
unraveled, unwritten,
to aether went,
in a moment forgotten.
Eternal the cost.
TW: Suicide
I feel my chest heave as I walk through the kitchen.
Heavy breath, warm and wet.
My pace deliberate, pronounced.
Cold steel grazes my neck, awakening memories.
The silence is over.
The time has now come,
where no longer fearful,
our voices ring clear.
The poet’s palette,
an ocean of words.
She covers the canvas,
with notions absurd.
Semantic reverie
and grammatical conundrums
collide within the mind.
Words laid thick,
drip from canvas
to floor below.
Blame the speed limit for the ticket,
the intersection when it’s run,
and the law for the crime.
Blame the bullet for the war,
the knife for the cut,
and the stone for the corpse.