Poetry as a coping mechanism
take me somewhere quiet
and sit with me awhile
stroke my hair and hum to me
and hold me in your smile
make the world okay again
and let me take it in
remind me of all I’ve yet to do
and everywhere I’ve been
let the sun come up once more
so things don’t weigh me down
remind me that this will pass
pick me up off the ground
let me see the world as good
and know what I live for
let’s just sit and rest and be
and not think anymore.
quiet piano in an
empty house; lived in,
worn,
fading carpets under
dusty feet.
loneliness and the
smell of lemons,
library books and
heavy wooden tables,
scarred, old.
tired, drooping eyes
racing thoughts circling
to nowhere
to nothing
to you.
fractions and fractals and
fragments in fractures and
headaches and
is it too much for
you
to live?
too much for me
too much for you
what’s someone
like me to do?
too much sadness
far too numb
too uptight but
too undone.
too much crying
too few tears
too much time in
too few years–
too much for you
but not enough
too bad you’re too
easy to love.
sugar:
a spoonful, tapped
on the rim of the bowl
and tipped
into black tea;
stirred until dissolved
and thick on the back
of my throat.
sugar,
a drawl in
oppressive heat,
demeaning and drawn out
to intimidate–
I have all the time
in the world
to sip my tea
and contemplate
everything you never said
to me.
you
hold my hand
over the table and
i trace freckles like they will
spell out
some way to reach
your heart.
the skin of your palm
is rough and cool and
your fingers
swallow mine;
skin the color of
hot cocoa before
it is stirred against
my own.
and I wish I could kiss
the bridge of your nose
and rest my chapped
lips on your brow,
but I am too scared
to say a word
so we leave as strangers
in faded pastels
on a muted backdrop
that we will both soon forget.
today is saturday,
another in a chain
of saturdays stretching on,
linked, pulling, fragile–
today is saturday,
but I am tired of it.
each second passes,
each minute, each
hour changes me
and I am afraid of the
thousands
of saturdays
I have yet to live.
who will I be when I wake up
tomorrow?
my saturdays are finite
but yours are limited
and we’ve never really
been able to breathe
together.
i miss you–
lowercase and broken.
crumbled to dust,
fine,
beneath my fingertips.
i miss you
but don’t know why;
do you think of me
on weekend nights?
do you ever miss notes,
little thoughts,
daily stars–
do you miss
what I used to be?
why are your hands cold?
why do you cry?
when you’re a failure,
why do you try?
how do you breathe
when nobody speaks?
why would you look
instead of just leap?
you are worth nothing
you’ve wasted your tears
I will not love you,
but be your worst fear.
he says
“your body is not your own”
though in different words
so maybe I’ll miss it
and stay silent.
he says
“your mind is not your own”
though in different words
so maybe I won’t understand
and be quiet.
he says
“your life is not your own”
though in different words
so maybe I won’t stand up
and fight.
he says that I am
broken, that I am
useless, that I am
nothing, that I am
unworthy, that I am
insignificant, that I am
stupid, that I am
annoying, that I am
nothing at all
to him.
he smothers my words
with small, sweaty hands
and spews nonsense
in its place.
he will not listen
as our world falls apart.
he will not listen
as I am denied love.
he will not listen
as children are shamed.
he will not listen
as lives are smothered.
he will not listen
to the words we scream
in the gaps between his
hatred,
and I am terrified
that so many
just
can’t
hear.
I have been lucky enough
to walk the woods.
once, twice, three times, again.
never once the same
as the time before;
a world that so many
will never see.
I have been lucky enough
to walk the mountains.
once, twice, three times, again.
every time the same
as the time before;
a world that will fall
as oceans rise.
I have been lucky enough
to walk the shores.
once, twice, three times, again,
every minute changing,
shifting under my feet;
a world that will vanish
with every fall of rain.
I have been lucky enough
to live, to breathe, to drink.
I have been lucky enough
to eat, to walk, to watch.
But I am not lucky enough
to escape melting permafrost
and the methane beneath.
I am not lucky enough
to escape 1.6 million cans
for every five minutes.
I am not lucky enough
to get by with just recycling
and turning off the lights.
It is not enough
to sit by and hope that
something will change.
I am the change.
I have to be.
Because otherwise,
nobody else will be lucky enough
to see the world
as it was.
Bad Day Poetry 