I know my depression the way I know my own name
something solid
familiar and
impossible to forget
it changes for a time
I go by a nickname or my middle name
but I’m still the same person as before
this is how depression is
my decision to let it out in poetry is my middle name
trying to force myself to socialize
when I’m least able to feel anything is me
going by a nickname with a chosen few
at the core
I am always chemically inclined to
melancholy and numbness
and that’s okay
I’m the same girl I was yesterday
even if you don’t recognize the name I’m using today
Tag: Wordcraft
poetry and prose that’s about being a writer (but not about how to write)
uncertainty [poem]
maybe cats are attracted to humans who need
to be reminded of their inherent wildness
in a world so determined
to tame everything out of us
but obedience
maybe dogs like to lick away our tears
because they remember being otters once
and the taste reminds them
of the ocean
maybe loud people carry a gene
that makes them more howler monkey than most
and their volume is meant as
both comfort
and warning
maybe I am part spider and these words are
the web I catch your feelings in
so I can feed on our mutual mindfulness
and all that noise
inside your soul
maybe you prefer absolutes and concrete facts
because anything is better than uncertainty
but maybe no one can give you that
read a story [poem]
I read a story where
a man struggled with a history of
bad choices and trust issues
and couldn’t get past his own demons
to reach the woman he loved
in time to make her stay
I read a story where
a woman picked herself up
one broken promise at a time
and found the strength to trust people
again and again
without letting cynicism
harden her heart into diamond
I read a story where
a pair of childhood friends pushed past
years of silence and distance
to find that web of love and laughter
still strung up between them
I read a story
or two
or three
every single day
because seeing a million ways to love someone else
gives me hope for my own happily ever after
journaling [poem]
these poems are the closest I get to keeping a journal
my fingers swyping out today’s adventure
into metaphors
until you can almost take my temperature
between the lines
scribble maker [poem]
I’m a poet by virtue of the way
I jot down poems every day
I’m a reader as I thumb through pages and pages
of other people’s stories
but I’m barely a writer
I don’t take time
or make time
to write my own stories
to trace out the random tales
hidden in my mind by some clever muse
but what’s the use
I’m no writer
only a scribble maker
with an itch that’s never scratched
weaving words [poem]
I’m a mother of bedtime stories
a goddess of fairytale whispers
this is my magic
I don’t think of it as magic though
not while I’m nose deep in
plot outlines and heartfelt dialogues
to me it’s just
a hobby
a fun game I play with myself
weaving words into images
but then
an outsider sneaks in
sees the half done tapestry and asks
how I can make a picture out of
so many random strings
how my fingers can twist and pull them into place
without conscious thought
oh darling
it really is magical
isn’t it
when I finally start writing [poem]
I’m hesitant to start writing a story
love
because writing a love story is
admitting that I don’t have you
let me explain
all my life
I’ve written stories
mostly romance as us hopeless romantics often do
but I only write about love
when it’s missing from my life
only drawing out two people falling into happiness
when my feet are on steady ground
and so
when I finally start writing this
newest novella
I’ll be admitting how absent you are
how lonely I am
and I’m not sure if I’m ready for that yet
a nice girl [poem]
I’m a nice girl
I don’t seem to have
a single mean bone in my body
when someone upsets me
I release my anger
channel my mind away from
violent thoughts and revenge
I don’t do vicious
except
when I write
I want my words to make you ache
chapters tearing open your heart
until you can only feel what I give you
anguish and despair
I want you
bleeding wreckage on the floor
next to the plot of unexpected betrayal
I derive pleasure
from the control a good story can gain
over a reckless reader’s soul
but
I’m a nice girl
I promise
English [poem]
the English language is a funny thing
impossibly complex
with words and phrases changing their meaning
in the blink of an eye
there’s magic in the transformation
try three common phrases
I promise
I love you
I’m sorry
these are the holy triad
of a good romance story
he promises he’ll stay
they apologize for their mistakes
she finds love and keeps it
but these three can be weapons too
I promise
I love you
I’m sorry
they can be a trap
the bait and switch that keeps you immobile
in a bad place
like twisted chains around your wrists
the three biggest lies ever told
linguistics are a funny thing
but sometimes
you won’t feel like laughing
happy ending [poem]
I want to write a story about a happy ending
because sometimes
I’m afraid to move forward in my own plot
afraid of finding out
I’m not meant for that kind of life
I want to write a story about a whirlwind romance
because sometimes
I’m afraid that I’ll never be in love like that
trust someone like that again
and it makes me sad to have missed the chance
I want to write a story about a villain
without ending their tale at redemption
because sometimes
I’m afraid of my own darkness
but I’m more afraid of blind naiveté
and the danger of believing the best of bad people
I want to write a story about magic
because sometimes
I’m afraid of becoming so enlightened that
no one can understand what I see anymore
I want to write a story
because sometimes
I’m afraid of what the world looks like
without storytellers
the artist’s eye [poem]
I’m not an artist
not in the way of pens or paints
but sometimes I suffer from the artist’s eye
my gaze tracing the lines of a stranger’s shirt
the play of lights and shadows in the midday sun
sometimes I stare at your lips as you speak
not because I wish to kiss them
but because they move so fluidly
and then I come back to myself
bemused to have lost time
wandering about the shapes of life
all around me
a blessing or a curse [poem]
some days the poems feel like
congealed grease smeared between my fingers
and I hate them
I want to find a faucet and
let heat and soap rinse them down the drain
to leave me clean again
some days the poems feel like
kicking off your shoes
at the end of a long day on your feet
letting the flex and press of your toes against carpet
ease the familiar ache
some days the poems feel like
lemon juice on a cut at the corner of your mouth
you didn’t even realize was there
until it stung like a brand
some days the poems feel like
ice tea dripping condensation down your wrist
as you chug down sweet relief
until it puts out the angry fires in your gut
poetry is a blessing or a curse
determined on a day by day basis
no secrets in an open book [poem]
I read once that
everyone has secrets
but I wonder if that’s true
I mean
what part of me is hidden
kept quiet and separate from those around me?
what stutter of my heart hasn’t been heard
by those close enough to hear it?
what memory of my past have I refused to tell?
there’s nothing
no moment or choice
or shame
that I’ve chosen to hide from any who bother
to come seeking
to ask the right questions
there’s a wild freedom in being an open book
in a world full of masks and locked doors
Larissa Lee 