Grief cries and life shines on — and hope paints a rainbow.
emotions
Insomnia ticking
three o’clock —
anxiety, regret
in the depths of worry
swept away in the
whirlwind of nothing —
a horrible nothing
blackout poetry created from Octave Mirbeau, The Diary of
Emotion sickness
The mind can cook up very subtle syndromes to throw at our bodies.
War paint
We paint our lives with passion and peace, with love and laughter — to cover the pain and scars, the bitterness and tears.
Unabashed
Don’t edit the demons — let them scream.
Timekeeper
Grief is historian of the heart.
Lonesome animals
“A writer out of loneliness is trying to communicate like a distant star sending signals. He isn’t telling or teaching or ordering. Rather he seeks to establish a relationship of meaning, of feeling, of observing. We are lonesome animals. We spend all life trying to be less lonesome. One of our ancient methods is to tell a story begging the listener to say — and to feel — ‘Yes, that’s the way it is, or at least that’s the way I feel it. You’re not as alone as you thought.’”
—John Steinbeck, letter to Peter Benchley, 1956
A January day that lives forever
In my mind —
I’ve tried a million
times to go back
to that day —
tried to change
my choices
begged a do-over
from the universe
I’ve crippled myself with
guilt
sorrow
thrashing the quicksand
sinking in
layers of grief
fighting a sticky web
trapped in
regret-regret-regret
I don’t even care about
my own
broken heart
I’m sorry
I broke yours
Healing stronger
Scars tell us more about the future than the past, about how we can live strong despite any pain we’ve been through.
Grief bores holes
Grief bores holes
in our hearts & heads
like a woodpecker
— peck peck peck
— knock knock knock
You can’t make it stop
Eventually it flies away
— but leaves pits
that never fully heal
Tempus nunquam dormit
Three A.M. is when
all the quiet things
become loud —
the drip in the sink,
that clock on the wall,
our hearts, our minds.
Water cycle
to cry is beautiful —
the beauty of one’s pain
leaving the heart
blackout poetry created from Maud Casey, The Man Who Walked Away, 2014
Ruminate
Regrets —
those ghosts
of action
that haunt
our thoughts