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Literature Text
Old classics,
lilac air-fresheners,
the half cup of
peppermint ice cream
that’s been
sitting in your freezer
for weeks, and cat litter.
He won’t eat anymore,
but there are
piles and piles
of dirty dishes
sitting in the sink.
He’s slowly
disintegrating
before your eyes.
You can wrap
your whole self
around his tiny bones
now.
You can hold him
like he used to hold you
all those years ago.
And you are angry.
You try to find
someone,
or something
to blame.
You hate doctors,
and you hate
November now.
November means
birthdays, diagnoses,
chemo treatments,
and realization.
You have to force yourself
to stop crying,
every day.
This is the one person
who’s always had faith
in you.
He’s read every poem
and hoarded every award
you ever won.
You ignore statistics,
because roses
they always
smell nicer.
lilac air-fresheners,
the half cup of
peppermint ice cream
that’s been
sitting in your freezer
for weeks, and cat litter.
He won’t eat anymore,
but there are
piles and piles
of dirty dishes
sitting in the sink.
He’s slowly
disintegrating
before your eyes.
You can wrap
your whole self
around his tiny bones
now.
You can hold him
like he used to hold you
all those years ago.
And you are angry.
You try to find
someone,
or something
to blame.
You hate doctors,
and you hate
November now.
November means
birthdays, diagnoses,
chemo treatments,
and realization.
You have to force yourself
to stop crying,
every day.
This is the one person
who’s always had faith
in you.
He’s read every poem
and hoarded every award
you ever won.
You ignore statistics,
because roses
they always
smell nicer.
Literature
Before I Can Become a Writer
Develop insomnia. Develop
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.
Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.
Cry. Cry for the inevitab
Literature
I can't write poetry for dead girls.
there are too
many pills in this
world and too
much misery in
the human heart
but that didn't mean
that you could just
up and leave when
we both know it
could have gotten better
and i miss you like
a wolf misses her pack
or a goddamn dragon misses
her fire and i'm sorry
that i can't give you
a bouquet of jasmines
(they were your
favorite, after all,
because that was
the only princess
with a pet tiger)
because poppies are
too cliche and i'm
sorry i wasn't there
when all you needed
was a hug and for someone
to whisper "it's okay,
you're perfect enough
for me, don't listen
to that junkie bitch
who just happened to
give birth to you" and did
Literature
Two Years Later
She asked him gently, “Do you love me?”
In his long silence, she found closure,
And left her love under a willow tree.
Suggested Collections
This is the worst poem I've ever written, I think.
I'm too emotional. I can't think.
But I recorded a reading:
soundcloud.com/dearpoetry/canc…
( Sorry my voice is all shaky and I'm trying not to cry. )
I'm too emotional. I can't think.
But I recorded a reading:
soundcloud.com/dearpoetry/canc…
( Sorry my voice is all shaky and I'm trying not to cry. )
Comments48
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I am very sorry for your loss. Was this written for someone you knew?