To Patrick Roche

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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

again.

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 heard,

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.

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