i write what i hate, but it feels okay
to talk about your eyes one more time
and the chaos that let us debris collide
just one more orbit around the sun
if i can ask for that
i hope to see you here again, next year
A poem is a love letter to the world, a pointing out of flowers to the next person on the path, a sunset settled into sentences, hearts still beating after bodies are dust, a sharing of souls, your daughter laying heavy-soft on your chest in the blue light of a show you are no longer watching as you twirl her hair between your fingers, watching the shine shift on her curls, listening to the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the carpet-softened footsteps of your wife as she takes the remote and vanishes the paused figures on screen and tells you that you should go to bed but you just want to stay here a little longer trading air with those you love and you hope you will be able to replay this memory forever, when she thuds her backpack down after high school and when she is tip-toes-happy with a ring on her hand, and when your hands become wrinkled with the blue diamonds of age and grandchildren slip their fingers into yours. This, amid all the traffic and the bills and the flag at half-mast for some new tragedy that you no longer can keep track of, this is worth living for.
I used to write poems when I was young but for some reason I stopped. It’s not that I no longer have something to say but perhaps because I have too much. The poems have evolved from emo to rhyme, it looks like I’ve run out of time.
Jared
The poet stood in front of the room. He was trying to look calm and he had dressed for the occasion so that he looked suave, But she could see his hands trembling as he read his poem. When he finished he looked around at the room, nervous that he had revealed some dark secrete about himself.
i write what i hate, but it feels okay
to talk about your eyes one more time
and the chaos that let us debris collide
just one more orbit around the sun
if i can ask for that
i hope to see you here again, next year
A poem is a love letter to the world, a pointing out of flowers to the next person on the path, a sunset settled into sentences, hearts still beating after bodies are dust, a sharing of souls, your daughter laying heavy-soft on your chest in the blue light of a show you are no longer watching as you twirl her hair between your fingers, watching the shine shift on her curls, listening to the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the carpet-softened footsteps of your wife as she takes the remote and vanishes the paused figures on screen and tells you that you should go to bed but you just want to stay here a little longer trading air with those you love and you hope you will be able to replay this memory forever, when she thuds her backpack down after high school and when she is tip-toes-happy with a ring on her hand, and when your hands become wrinkled with the blue diamonds of age and grandchildren slip their fingers into yours. This, amid all the traffic and the bills and the flag at half-mast for some new tragedy that you no longer can keep track of, this is worth living for.
I used to write poems when I was young but for some reason I stopped. It’s not that I no longer have something to say but perhaps because I have too much. The poems have evolved from emo to rhyme, it looks like I’ve run out of time.
The poet stood in front of the room. He was trying to look calm and he had dressed for the occasion so that he looked suave, But she could see his hands trembling as he read his poem. When he finished he looked around at the room, nervous that he had revealed some dark secrete about himself.