Inspiration: the past

Here’s a poem that might offend some of my family that reads this blog but I really don’t care. I wrote this today at a good friend’s house. Here ya go!


I waited through warm summer rain
and the music of crickets nestling
in the marsh out back,
yet her eyes remained sunken gray stones
in a stagnant pool of water,
tears filling but never falling.
She grew smaller and grayer,
like the once-fulfilled life of a firework,
for a moment suspended in the peak
of what it’s supposed to be,
and all I could do is watch it darken
and die.
I was a bystander.
I was a bad Samaritan, eyes locked on a fatal
crash, immobilized in awe,
because that was the work of god.
That summer was a repetition of bad advice, like
“time heals all wounds,” but I kept picking at my scabs
and I watched them bleed, hoping they might disappear.
I poured a little whiskey on them, all the while thinking
maybe it will never feel this bad again.


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