The Feeling

This is me taking a feeling and running with it.
This is me tripping down every stair on my way to the bottom,
This is the feeling tumbling out of my arms
With a catlike shriek, this is the bang before the universe.
This is me, unable to write words as naked as Vonnegut’s
Who promised everything was beautiful and nothing hurt
And this is me not believing, this is me waiting for death
because I have the perfect epitaph:
“She tried to say everything but her mouth wouldn’t open wide enough.”
You can’t take me out to see the stars tonight,
Not when my breath flares up like light pollution
And I have to trace the constellations from memory.
This is me when the sky’s gone dead.
This is me, poverty-stricken, this is me with a poem in my fist
After weeks of dumpster-diving.
This is me the scavenger.
This is me taking a feeling and running with it,
This is me tripping over my own feet
And crying over my broken legs

This is the feeling growing its own
And walking on without me.


9 thoughts on “The Feeling

  1. I have been thinking lately about death poems.
    This would make a good one.
    I thinks it’s therapeutic to write death poems.
    To think about what one would say
    if one knew that one was about
    to die tomorrow.

Thoughts? I love those.

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