When reality becomes too much
To bear
Too heavy to hold
Too much to witness
Too much to transcribe
The poet
Leaves
The pen next to the paper
On the desk
Leaves
The space between the lines
Open
Leaves
The silence
To be heard
Loud and clear
An elixir of pride and sorrow
Grams heard my poetry:
Sat in a room full of strangers
Watched me clip the laundry
Life fabric to flow in wind
For all to see
These words that paint pictures
Of a childhood trauma unrecognized
“We should’ve got you a therapist” she say
“How did we forget about you?” she say
I don’t remember my response
But I remember me enough to know
I didn’t get mad or
Maybe didn’t show mad
Always have to meet the world with compassion
Heart so heavy, been heavy
Throw love like a shot put
Put all my might underneath
Rage is foreign
Don’t know if this is temperament or facade
Is this me for me or me for you
In preschool I traded naptime for grief
I sobbed as the class slept
“Where is your daddy” she say
“In heaven” I say
I don’t know rage
No time for rage
Only time for sewing family together
Only time for melting into glue
Only time for catching passing aggression and dispersing the energy
with my self
I don’t know rage, but grief has become my closest friend, and compassion my oldest lover.