Each night I lie in bed
and ponder why I still sit
in that chair every day
trying to tell stories
of a me and a you
that never happened,
why I scribble about memories
that are the barest of vapors
moved by a breath I’ll
never feel on my cheek.
These days I ponder
that same question even
as I sit in this chair
talking to myself alone and
not listening, just transcribing
the silence where once spoke reason.
Maybe that’s why I still do this.
I’m searching for reason
where reason doesn’t exist.
No longer reasonable,
yet unreasonably necessary.
Day 17. A “reason” poem. It’s true. I lie in bed at night and wonder why I even do this pointless exercise, this seemingly fruitless waste of what time I have left. Then I get up, sit in this chair, open a new document, start typing and still don’t know why. Maybe that last sentence, which I just looked up and found sitting there, is my unconscious self’s explanation. It’s necessary for at least one of us.
Here I am again,
whispering in your ear,
telling secrets about myself
so maybe your own you can hear.
Here you are again.
Is that your name you hear
even though you’re all by yourself,
so no one can see your tear?
Here we are again,
conversing as if we’re near,
sharing secrets about ourselves,
yet each always alone, I fear.
There I go again,
never exactly making it clear,
but it’s no secret, this Song of Self,
which you read alone, is yours alone, my dear.
Day 10 of poem-a-day NaPoWriMo, a “lone” poem. It’s strange that someone who has written scores of poems about loneliness and isolation, while sitting all alone, hopes they might touch many people, though each in the alone-ness of their own minds and hearts. Loneliness is a lack, a feeling that something is missing, a pain, a depression, a need, an incompleteness, an absence. Aloneness is presence, fullness, aliveness, joy of being, overflowing love.You are complete.Nobody is needed, you are enough. Love makes you complete. This loving act of talking to everyone by talking to just myself makes me complete.
Apparently I have nothing more to say,
but it’s not only words that will not come.
My heart that bled ink for you ev’ry day
is but a husk now, empty, voiceless, dumb.
I’ve fought like hell and I’ve just let it go,
like a man breaking a horse to saddle
Used all the old tricks, still my heart shakes no,
no longer a poet’s heart. A rattle.
And so I leave you, unfortunate few,
another will take this place, I’m quite sure.
Wordless poets might as well bid adieu,
after we’ve given up finding a cure.
And so to this disease I’ve fallen prey,
even love has failed to heal me today.
I’m trying to write something happier
something outside of the same old dark stuff.
Problem: I don’t wish to sound sappier,
but convey more than a dog barking “Ruff.”
I said, “Joe, what would make you feel better?”
But the answer didn’t make itself clear.
I knew maybe when my whistle’s wetter…
So I went to the kitchen for a beer.
Sustained, I sat to make happy happen,
but just beer alone can bring on a yawn.
The next thing you know this poet’s nappin’,
rhyming “yawn” with the sound of wood sawin’.
So my hope to write you a poem of joy
lies delayed beneath your sleeping old boy.
I’m trying’ to fake it ’til I make it. Make it out of this long running depressed state. So in a stab at my own form of cognitive behavioral therapy, I figured maybe if I could express some joy in a poem, I might catch that wave out of this eddy of woe. Let’s just say I feel a little more near its perimeter. Hope I made you grin a little. THAT makes me feel better.
Shroud of Sadness by Elle Leee
The dolorous shroud again fell on me
after I thought I’d escaped its dark shade.
And, again, it was dropped by a jeune fille,
this time not because of trouble I made.
Well, just a tad, because my love’s so big,
but love’s only a construct made for rhyme.
I figured this out as I tried to dig
up the right word that sounds like rhyme this time.
Losing your love, whether rhyming or not
gutted me like a dull knife in my chest.
And the blood ran from my heart, cold not hot,
so maybe this shroud’s all for the best.
Perhaps you’ll love this poet when he’s dead,
but if I’m just blue, forget what I said.
Yeah, Valentine’s Day always brings out the loser in me. And I’ve always been a better poet of Loss more than Love.
I remember times I thought of calling,
but then stopped short after some reflection.
See, sometimes I get that feel of falling
and can’t help but think about our connection.
Soon, though, I realize my delusion,
which is a step in the right direction.
I’ve always struggled with love’s confusion,
which led to many kinds of rejection.
I sit down and put these thoughts in writing,
which you might think is half-assed projection.
But really it’s my way of inciting
a muse-less artistic resurrection.
So this is my way of self-protection:
poems of love with no real affection.
Just warming up for Valentine’s Day, y’all, with this sonnet that needs a lot of correction.
I believe I’m Nobody, nothing new,
those mirages I’d just never believe.
It’s why you so easily bid me adieu,
and then hardly took any time to grieve.
Of course, I could be Anybody, too,
a face in the crowd, a drop in the sea.
But, really, whether it’s many or few,
an Any’s a No who’s part of a We.
And so I sit here and write for no one —
anyone who’s Anybody won’t read.
Once, I thought I might catch your attention,
but many words have nothing on one deed.
Emily asked if I’m Nobody too;
I asked just to be Somebody to You.