May 21, 2017 by Moony
To a poet who continually makes me strive to get better, who finds words I can’t, and whose words echo my thoughts so well it seems like he’s looked into my head.
I wake up and can’t see through blinding tears and already blurred eyes
Disappointment and words that I can’t even say right.
I know that you will.
For a writer I can’t seem to say, or do, or feel anything right,
but silk, and blunt, and all of the rough words flow
from your lips and leak from mine
I can’t think.
Words blinding my mind and slurring my thoughts enough
to keep the depression and anxiety close and chained.
Keeping them wrapped and caressing
every. idea. and. plan.
I forgot to take the medicine,
i forgot to be a doormat,
I forgot to let myself go
I let your words speak volumes over mine so that maybe
someone else’s words could be the descriptor this time.
Maybe in someone else’s words it would be more clear that
something would get through that
my guilt and shame would eat through
or my heart would stop.
Patrick, we have never met but
sometimes I feel closer to you that anyone I’ve seen
or talked to.
My words are imperfect and jumbled from a fogged mind
but maybe an ode to you, your struggles that at times mirror mine so perfectly
is needed. Wanted. Accepted.
Maybe not by you but someone. Anyone.