these poems that do not love me back


the ones that lack
depth and breadth
and breath. i’ll stack

them up from end
to end, befriend their
swollen sorrow, their
swallowed songs. i’ll long

await the day they re
-member how to play
and dance, entrance the
summer sky. i’ll lie

within their ink, drink
deep of gray. say you’ll
hold them, when they fin
-ally spill high enough to fly.

 

 

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2 Responses to these poems that do not love me back

  1. You can give them all to me 🙂
    I’m sure each and every one of them has something you can squeeze out of them!

  2. Violet says:

    I’m pretty sure they’re remembering how to play just fine. 😉

    I think we need each other, you and I. To remember that it’s okay, nay GOOD, for us to play when we write. We give each other permission, I think.

    Also, I love the way you’re loving your poems (even the ones that disappoint you) like they’re you’re children … unconditional love. Seriously. This is inspiring. I obviously need to be more like you. Because really, loving your poems (even if you don’t like them) is loving yourself. When I hate on my words all the time, I’m really beating myself down over and over again.

    And isn’t that exactly how parenting feels? You give and give and give, love SO deeply and unconditionally … and it really feels like they don’t love at all most of the time, on more than a superficial or mandatory level anyway.

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