sad poetry
The cathartic nature of poetry makes it one of the best outlets to channel feelings of sadness, emotional turmoil, grief and despair.
The Small, Hard Thing
There are three photographs of me from that winter. In one, I am laughing with my mouth open too wide, like the girl in the picture doesn’t know what waits for her in July. In another, your hand is at the base of my spine, casual as weather. The third was taken after. Though no one looking at it would know that. Everyone always says that: "You look so happy here." I threw away the blue dress before I learned how to forgive myself for buying it. That came years later, in the produce aisle, holding peaches too soft to survive the drive home. Funny— I remembered your birthday for seven consecutive years and forgot my own phone number twice. The worst part wasn’t the leaving. No. It was how long I continued introducing you in stories after you were gone. Like muscle memory. Like a country still printing maps with a vanished city. In May, before any damage had technically occurred, my mother asked me over for coffee and whether I trusted you.
By Brie Boleyn4 months ago in Poets
Survival mode
There are Hours which do not ring upon the Clock Yet the Body knows them A peculiar tightening of the Orchard Air before Storms elect their Violence The Blood becomes attentive then Like Horses hearing distant Iron upon a road no Eye has witnessed One waits though for what the Mind refuses proper Language The Walls draw nearer by Imperceptible Inches The Curtains breathe The Floor acquires the motion of a Ship unmoored from God And beneath the Sternum something scratches Not Beast Not Bird Some pale inhabitant with patient Nails turning circles inside the Cagework One smiles still One pours the Tea correctly One discusses Weather and Wheat and Scripture while inwardly the Match is held too near the Wick It is a strange Affliction to burn and exhibit no Flame The Nerves become Telegraph Wires receiving Messages from absent Countries all translated poorly A Door inside the Skull opens and opens though no Man enters Even the Silence acquires Teeth At Night the Sheets grow ceremonial cold as river stones laid upon the Dead and the Heart performs its nervous Ministry with the devotion of an overworked Bell There are Sensations for which Heaven made no Vocabulary The feeling of falling while seated perfectly still The certainty that something dreadful has paused outside the Window only to admire its Reflection Morning arrives indecently bright The World carries on its small employments Birdsong Bootheels Milk steaming upon the Stove And one rises buttoning the Wilderness beneath the ribs as though it were merely another Garment fit for polite Society
By Taylor Ward4 months ago in Poets
