Bruised Morning Tuesday Poem
I hide my loved wrapped in a fist
on the other side of a fear dream
inspired by H.P. Lovecraft, and a cheaper brand of
(I don’t like it, but even now we eat like
depression era children, what’s set down before us
in the vague fear that soon we may need
the calorie bath.)
What you said, last night, justified my horror
in me, because
I could still feel joy from the underbelly of your despair.
That’s why I offered you your freedom,
and when you kept batting it away
forced it upon you, the violence evident
in your heaving grief.
How I hate my own capacity for joy
in these circumstances.
But let’s not be so dramatic, eh?
In the morning there was cat barf, laundry and
radio talk show hosts.
Tragedy is impermanent.
I’ve explained it before, that acute
emotional-ness is not personally sustainable.
Whether that’s true, I took a victory lap
the day I discovered I don’t have to
wring out every bit of me
We live. Nobody deserves it. We don’t particularly un-deserve it.
I think you deserve it, and sometimes you should enjoy
the crush, the ache, the shatter and soar, but
preserve yourself by measures.
Cus we’re called upon to care
in certain instances,
and that should be accommodated.
You don’t need to bleed my heart dry
or stress your soul thread-bare,
because these still have some use.
Warmest of wishes. No more dying today!
Let’s clasp hands, and be insensitive enough
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