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Incipient Poet Poem
Inspired by the unending love my grandparents had for each other and a story of one of their winter dates.
On this cloudy winter day,
the sky is gray
and I am too.
I kick a pebble off the sidewalk
into the cold embrace of snow.
It loses its luster
when neither the sun nor you
are here to lend it beauty to reflect.
As the sun reveals itself,
I am reminded of you
and all your golden glory.
The weak sun rays dare not to compare
to the warmth that emanates from your soul
That streams from your fingertips
every time we touch
Warming me until I fear I might die from
the overwhelming expansion of light and love
inside me.
My grave will read “cause of death: solar flare”
And all who pass it by will remark
“Ah, what a wonderful way to go.”
You are my winter sun,
and I am but a specimen of flora
depending on you for life and sustenance.
When you die, I will swiftly wither away
in the misery
caused by the absence of my life,
my source of direction,
my whole world.
You are everything to me,
and I will spend every second I can borrow
giving you all I have and more.
Copyright © Incipient Poet | Year Posted 2023
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Incipient Poet Poem
Bring it up.
Shove it down.
Hate, accept, hate, accept, hate again.
This can't be me.
...could it be?
Not fully female, not fully something else.
Slowly changing, never the same.
She/her? I guess that's fine.
They/them? Maybe sometimes.
What is it?
Do I want to know?
When I learn the answer, will it be something impossible?
Something hateful?
Something I could never be?
I guess we'll see.
Copyright © Incipient Poet | Year Posted 2022
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Incipient Poet Poem
I never let myself express my thoughts or feelings to others.
That'd be embarrassing.
Here, though, it's like my own personal echo chamber.
My thoughts go out
They bounce back to me
And no one's the wiser.
Not many read my poems.
Those that do are like ghosts.
Passing by with little more than a whisper of the wind
To show they were ever even there at all.
No one I know can read these.
No one I know can find out what I think or feel or want.
It's a comfort.
This space is safe from the prying eyes of non-strangers.
Here, I can speak without fear.
Copyright © Incipient Poet | Year Posted 2022
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Incipient Poet Poem
tw suicidal ideation
My mind’s fading to dark grey again.
I’m like a boat drifting in the storm, struggling above the waves for a second just to go right back under again.
I’ve been like this since I was six.
Why does death feel
So much closer than before?
It used to be something I wished for
But I knew I would never try to reach it.
Now…
I’m not so sure.
I lost belief in God when I was young.
No matter how hard I sobbed into my pillow
No matter how fervently I prayed
No matter how many times I tried to suffocate
He wouldn’t let me die
So my faith did instead.
Now here I am again.
Curled up on the shower floor
Weak prayers falling from my lips
Pleading to surrender to the darkness of sleep.
I don’t want your pity, your worry, your “it’ll get better. Trust me.”
I want to know why I’m like this.
Why have I always thought I’m worthless and stupid and useless and someone no one wants to speak to or see or notice?
Maybe then the storm will break.
Maybe then the boat will stay afloat.
Maybe then enduring sunlight will shine upon its bow.
Copyright © Incipient Poet | Year Posted 2022
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Incipient Poet Poem
Back straight, shoulders down. Straighten the computer. Stop staring at the purple walls.
Light the candle once, twice, three times -- why won’t it light? --
before the flame finally catches,
filling the room with the scent of pine.
Breathe in, breathe out. Start typing.
Sunlight slants across my fingertips, and I turn to face the source
impossibly far from the window.
The clouds are tinged the golden white of times flown by,
of the yarn of the Fates that winds tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter in your chest until you’re suffocating, asphyxiating, gasping for breath, panic turning your body to crumbling stone.
The mushrooms know this process well. It’s been inscribed in their DNA since well before humans were graced with the knowledge of how to care for their dead.
Over the eons, they’ve befriended Time and Death alike.
What would I give to have such an intimate connection with the two?
To sit back amongst shadows that drape me like a blanket rather than grip me like a vise?
Too much time has passed. Too many seconds lost. Time, time, time, slipping away from my scrambling fingers.
Can’t grip the yarn; too silky, too precious. The Fates wove quality too fine for mortals to grasp.
Clear thoughts like an etch-a-sketch, sending fireglow hair flying. Breathe in, breathe out.
Start typing.
The words that appear are damn near incomprehensible, shrouded and hidden by
ghosts of memories that weave themselves through my thoughts.
A dark lake house lit by candles and the fire in my eye as I take my grandma “exploring”
over forest-colored carpet and around oak tables,
a land she’s already familiar with.
How do I rectify that vision with what’s facing now?
112 feather-light pounds of gray hair and fading eyes,
reality’s cruel reward for a life of purpose and love.
I’m scrambling to keep up with all the changes, but my grasp is slipping.
Suddenly she’s falling faster than we thought.
The heater’s white noise is the only constant,
the handfuls of M&Ms the only distraction.
I’m all too aware of the bills I’m racking up,
too cognizant that synthetic dopamine only shoves away what’s real,
but I’m crumbling too fast to care.
Shaky breath in. Straighten the computer. Stop staring blankly at the purple walls.
There’s too much to do; the future’s jumping down your throat and running away.
Start typing.
Copyright © Incipient Poet | Year Posted 2023
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