Oh, God I’m alone

I think about you, not in

My darkest times, or my loneliest nights. 

Not amongst the trees, or the bourbons 

I think about you, yes in 

The times where you can’t help

But crack the visage, to let loose 

In the midst of friends, family even 

In the flowers, the creeks, the soft coo 

Of crows. 

For that I am hatefully thankful, not

For the scars you left, or the things you

Took. But because I could feel so 

Crashingly big in the shadow of someone

So pure. 

I’m not smiling through tears, or 

Perusing through beers. I’m just so 

Utterly, untouched, unprovoked, and 

Understandably alone. This prison,

My own making, is not a testament to 

Your love, and affection but to the perilous 

Size of my self-centeredness 

A small note about the poem above. I tend to never know when to finish a poem, freeform being as free as it is, so this one presumably stopped after the line “so pure.” Curious to see if other writers face this particular problem. It works with and without the final stanza (lines) so I felt inclined to leave it here, full and unmolested.

Untitled

I found myself alone this morning, long

Before the curtailing sounds of my alarm, and the

Bright, too bright, phone screen screaming. Somewhere

In between your side and mine, I sprawled, yearning for

The sweet release of coffee, footfalls to hallway. Check 

The creamer, set the timer, a doughnut from the pantry. I 

Laugh alone as I wash your cup in the sink. And suddenly

Stressed, work, emails, work, notifications, TV, eating,

Drinking, despairing. I’ll respond to you when I get a chance,

corporate guilt exposing my desire to do absolutely nothing. My hand 

Finds the track pad and I’m hurtling, barreling, towards

The X’s, a last glimpse behind as I abandoned coworkers 

And managers, and expense reports. Index finger of the right

Hand the key, the click, and I’m gone. Free to laze about this terse

Monday morning. To spend my time as I please, with small pangs

Of guilt, but nothing too serious. Seven A.M. should be outlawed 

I think.

Borne

Long gone are the days my eyelids were 

The heaviest burden, I 

Bore. Borne upon the back my

Inability to shoulder. The weight

Ever growing, ever tiresome, ever present. 

Don’t get me wrong, I placed it here, I

The sole inheritor and proprietor. Establish

My self inflicted Sisyphus, a stone I’ve

Grown accustomed to. It holds heat from 

The sun well enough, grows cold on 

Nights spent lonely, and nights spent 

Galavanting. Most nights it’s just something to

Fall to the wayside, recognized but not

Acknowledged. An oh so gentle reminder

That I am not as strong as

I perceive to choose  

To be.

Statue

Fall not upon the cobbled stones, a 

Laughing architecture. Faces, deformed

And ardent. Judgemental even, woe is 

The stone gaze, so stuck in its ways.