They say love is poetry
or maybe that poetry is love.
For someone like me
love could be in a bounty of words
spoken to the pulse in my wrist.
Lift my sleeve and see the beat;
it wasn’t always that simple, you know.
We find some decisions are tough because
it’s not always that easy to break through.
There are times we come up empty, as if
we’re trying to find our hearts
in someone else’s story.
They might say, love is poetry.
But some find love in the words we never say
or by leaving what you desire
in order to save it.
It’s like the day I gave up on poetry
because it wouldn’t save me from myself.
Put the pen away. Leave the pages
No one wants to know
that someone couldn’t love you back
and died in vain,
spilling your blood to end
the misery in her bones.
No one wants to know.
Sometimes the things we leave behind
are the ones we need the most.
Love can be the best part of living.
Love can be the hardest part of living.
Some of us can’t tell the difference.
I thought my words would kill me someday,
That I wouldn’t spend enough time crunching deadlines
and turn into some antiquated writer in poverty;
How fucking lame would that be?
I surrendered my voice,
my tongue littered with the bodies
of all the words I’d left for dead.
Empty nesting in written pages,
torn sheets like shattered dinner plates in my hands
that I couldn’t let go of.
Spilling my guts nourished something inside
even if it couldn’t put food on the table.
It was my hand-to-mouth,
the importance of being earnest.
Some people don’t know
how to starve the grief in their bones.
They say love is a lot like loss
or loss is a lot like love.
I’ve never been good at those,
but I know hope can be harder to swallow
than letting go sometimes.
I know there are times
being honest just doesn’t feel right.
Sometimes being right doesn’t feel very honest.
Some of us just can’t tell the difference.