Poem 1:
what keeps you moving
on days when all seems lost
every visit to the hospital
the library book that became a friend
what the sunrise means
the song that lives in your bones
your favorite memory of your father
what part of a stranger’s face
you notice first
what part of mine?
Poem 2:
My poems embarrass me.
Cringeworthy, childish clichés
not crafted, coughed up
won’t sock you in the chest
or cradle you in tenderness
or reveal anything other than
how much I want to be found
how much I am found wanting
no talent skill intelligence love
no restraint.
Adults call them “inside thoughts”
but I think the kids phrase it like
“saying the quiet part out loud.”
Me, too loud always, except
too quiet when volume counts.
and how can truth always sound
like a lie on the page
how can I leave the best out
say too much of what’s worthless
ugly and humiliating
something said a million times before
beyond boring but
not worthy of writing once
but me, I’ll scrawl it, share it (repeat)
such a stupid sequence
and everything I write feels like
too much of me to reach anyone
just a spiral of the same old sadness
I’m trapped and I’m not poet enough
to write my way out.
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