P.O.E.T

P.O.E.T.

I never thought myself a poet-

I’m not good at lofty words

Or gentle rhymes and wordplay.

Who would read my words if they don’t hear my voice?

Everyone’s a critic, everyone offers advice-

Don’t be so depressing and sad- write uplifting stuff.

You’re so negative and you’re exposing too much of yourself,

You just need to pray and He will deliver you.

As if I don’t already cry out to my Father…

I get it- trust me, I know.

As a once respected pastor said to me as I cried

No one wants to be around a depressed person-

Buckle up and put on a happy face.

My therapist, too, sometimes doesn’t hear me-

Busy crafting Socratic and circular questions

Or focusing on how I said something rather than what I say-

Seems he’s heard it before and just wants to get to the fix.

Am I broken and just in need of repairs?

Dear friends hold limited capacity

To hear the same cries and see the same tears

Because they feel helpless and just want to see me happy.

So I hold back, fasten lids, and clamp things down.

But I’ve come to realize that I don’t write these for you-

I write them for that weeping part of me

That has been clinging to my side all these years.

I write to say, “I see you, I hear you, I love you.”

I guess I’m a poet to my very own soul.

TMD 4/26/24

30-day poems with @beausia