What Month Is This?

It feels strange to be here, like walking into the room that used to be mine as a child and finding things I had forgotten I left behind. Why didn’t I throw them all away before leaving? Why did my parents keep them? Why is this blog still here?

I am so deeply depressed that none of this feels real. None of these words are mine. I cannot write myself a better life. I never could. What was I thinking? Who was I pretending to be when I believed that these little rhymes mattered? My family tried to warn me by their detachment. They’ve always known my treasures are worthless. I let them sit forgotten, gathering dust, waiting for me to return.

It’s too much to process. I’m not up to making big decisions today, so I’ll back away and close the door again. I’ll clean this up some other time.


A Poem? Not a Poem?

Let’s try this again.
I’ve written, deleted, written more.
Deleted more.
This is my life. Nothing sticks,
no matter what I try.
I’m not finishing things,
not accomplishing anything.
Write. Delete.
No record I was ever here.
Do I really have so little to say?
Or do I simply lack the voice to say it?
I tried to sing along to an old song
when I was driving yesterday.
My throat felt tight and closed.
My voice wobbled, unable
to find and hold the note.
I used to sing all the time:
school chorus,
community theater,
around the house.
Anywhere and everywhere.
Always a song.
And if not a song, a story.
Not any more.
I bury my stories deep.
I silence my songs.
And the silence has stretched so long,
that I’ve forgotten the words to my life.
Has the tune faded too?
I strain to hear it,
to hum it,
but there’s nothing there.
Am I disintegrating?
Have so many pieces of my self
fallen away
that I’m unrecognizable?
Is this why I can’t write?
I feel as though part of me
has been switched off,
and I don’t know how
to turn it on again.
Even as I type,
my throat feels constricted
and sore.
I cannot speak.
Whatever I have to say,
my body holds tight
and won’t release.
I fear that if I ever
find that current,
that energy,
that life force again,
it will shatter me.
What’s left of me.
It will blow me apart.
Would that be a relief?
One last burst of feeling,
followed by…

Maybe if I knew that answer,
I wouldn’t feel
so empty,
so lost,
so tired,
so alone,
so discouraged,
so hollow,
so done.

I Want Answers


What happens when we die?
When the sun can’t wake us,
though it tries?

When the cold inside spreads,
and that odd expression
freezes on your face?

What happens then?
Is it the end? Finally free.
Or do I become we and fly

back to a bluer sky?
Not so heavy anymore.
Not so sure of the answers.

All the questions changed
in the blink of an eye
and a fixed gaze.

Still Processing That Dream


I never knew this kind of love existed.
Or how badly I need it, more broken than
ever, but in a different way. Not broken
by hurt feelings, and hard times, and great losses.
Broken in the way that makes you forget
you’ve forgotten who you really are or that
this other love exists. Is existence.

Is this love something I’ve had but resisted?
Am I made of it too, not just you? And can
you tell me who I am? So much left unspoken.
I feel it only when a dream crisscrosses
life and death, this love I haven’t found here yet.
I’m looking in the wrong places, aren’t I? At
people and things, all tension and resistance,

when all I really need are waking dreams that
remind me life’s journeys aren’t about distance.

My Late Brother Showed Up in a Dream


Just a dream I think, still not believing
It wasn’t something more. The warmth was real.
And you were healthy, whole, and young again,
Larger than life, yet more fully alive
In a way that’s hard to describe. Life pure.

You didn’t speak, didn’t fight my grieving,
Just put your arms around me, let me feel
What you’ve become: The calm, the peace, and then
The love, unlike anything here that I’ve
Ever called love. It was strong and secure,

Supple and whole. Life, love, interweaving
In a way that’s hard to describe, to heal
Things I didn’t know were broken. Now when
I think of life and love, how both survive,
I know that I’ve forgotten so much more

About who I am, who we are. Alive,
Waking and in dreams, becoming life pure.

Will Life Ever Make Sense?


I am my own worst everything,
Much more than any enemy.
I store my lies in sterile jars,
Each labeled with the truth by hand.

I am my own best anything,
Misunderstood epitome
Of contradiction, marked by scars
That tell a truth few understand.

I search for meaning in the stars.
Is all this chance, or was it planned?