Is this what it is to be a poet
Plagued with doubts and fears?
Consistently caught by “Who am I?”
Kept awake by “Why am I here?”
These days I feel so waver-y
Like the pattern the beach sand contains.
My heart is fluttery, fickle, abrupt
As the tears spill and fall down my face.
What! What is this
What an odd combination
to feel like one’s blood is flaming
But also as if it’s dead?
You live inside me
You hollow the sickness from my bones. I will hold on to you, Star-maker, do not leave inside this cold.
I cannot stop running, yet am so very still
Something is wrong, I am sick, I am ill
Music cannot chase away the tar that is consuming all my blood
I sing like a jester but my eyes are growing dimmer
I am torn apart by the cavernous dark,
And I cannot explain away the echoes that roost inside my heart.
Fancy words desert me
And I crumble like a child.
Hearing your mother cry
Having your soul ripped to shreds.
I cannot imagine
The pain of my Creator
Who formed her, and everyone else;
When one of His children
Once I found long words to sculpt
To morph the way I felt;
Now I am brevity
An anxiety shorter than breath,
A love lost in tumultuous age
Tears shed- always in yesterday.
Poker chips are in the sky
Flung there when the losers cry
Poker chips, broken in
The stars and moon will play again.
Will I vow
Baited on by intoxication
A churning inside caused by
I will dance alone until the stars break even with the moon.
She still looked at him like he’d hidden the stars in his eyes.
I wonder, if you read the words
Would you recognize them as yours?
Or would you walk right past and miss
The potential that we could be more?
It sinks within me, to
New depths that I did not know were inside.
Deep down in my soul I feel it
All this heaviness inside
And I don’t know how to purge the doubt
Yeah, even though I’ve tried.
So I will ache a little deeper
The words will numb the pain.
I don’t know why I’m sad or tired
But light will come again.
Through the murky fog inside
I’ll try my best to work and serve
But even the brightest lights burn out.
Even the strongest men break down.
Cinders, ashes, coal and rock
That’s what I feel in the pit of my gut
Oh God, it feels like I’m not alive
Dear Lord, save me, why can’t I cry?
Mama, did we ever finish talking about
That memory I have where you told me on the way to Walmart about a woman God wanted you to pray for;
And the woman had told you she needed prayer right at the moment when God told you to reach out to her (the moment you did reach out to her);
Well, remember how that memory
Was in my mind, and I nodded along as you told the story to dad, several weeks
(A long time) after you had told it to me.
And how I knew what you would say, before you said it, because it was a story I knew? You had already told it to me? I remembered it from that trip to Walmart?
But then I brought it up, I said
“Yeah, I remember you telling me about this; it was that one missionary from Ireland, right?”
And you looked at me strangely and
Because you had just spoken to this woman
This story had just happened
I could not have known it
But I did. I knew. I remembered
Clearly the entire thing;
You told me it as we drove to Wal-Mart.
But you insisted you had just spoken to her
This had just taken place;
you’d messaged her; this conversation was dated today!
My memory was in the wrong time frame.
And we drifted off somehow
Forgot to keep talking about it
And now I wonder
If I experienced some intense form of déjà vu that
Inserts a memory into your mind, very specific, very neat, very certain even after that moment has passed, with surroundings and clarity;
Or if God told me what would happen
Before it did.