I don't know what I write about
whether it be the short bursts of emotion
that blast behind my eyes like fireworks on a lake,
their gasps of illumination echoing across mountains,
or the weight and comfort of memory,
wrapping me in a cocoon of nostalgia
that wicks away the moisture building in my eyes
and hugs me like my father would, if he were able.
I don't know what I write about
Whether its the deplorable state of the world
and the cracking of thunder on the horizon
as different doomsdays
plot their eventual coup of the nations
that so desperately sought to evade their power,
Or the singular chaos that is life with mental illness
the conversations in my head
where tribunals war with each other over who is
king
and who must sweep the stables of their refuse
and sleep in the straw bales that shape my personality.
Nobody knows what I write about
Try as I might to make it sensible, circuitous, logical,
the rationale behind my decision is always the same.
Hide.
Run.
Don't let yourself ever become the burden you fear you are.
I don't know what I write about.
And I'm not sure I want to know.
Because knowing is acknowledging
that there is a problem,
and that no one but me can fix it.
and in the end,
I don't care, either.
-
Author:
JCE (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 3rd, 2021 13:34
- Comment from author about the poem: Just a summary of what i've posted so far, and how I think my writing style develops with each passing day. It's a process, anyone can tell you that, but sharing is a lot harder than I would have thought it would be. I hope this shows people that they're not alone when they feel inadequate.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 18
- Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek
Offline)
Comments1
I think none of us know, really..
sometimes I read what I've written from a few years back
and I have no idea, even
with that date stamp to help me recall
what I must have going through, or feeling
for me to come up with such alien words,
but then at other times, I realise
that me inking - out, so much scarlet
on what was once, a stranger of a blank canvas - connection,
has helped me, make it
to the Today - me,
reading and reflecting, calmly
while breathing, easily
and maybe, there's a Tomorrow
where I can look back, at the problems of today
with that same luxury relief, of distance...
(another wonderfully intimate write, dear Poet
thanks for sharing)
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