Maybe I'm one of those people
Who just mourn
Slower and longer.
One of those people
Within whom
Grief travels slowly through,
A barely perceptible trickle
At first,
So small and unnoticeable,
That they mistake me for a rock.
And then the trickle become a
Stream
Caught behind my eyes,
And I can hold it back
Redirect it through
The trenches of my rigid back,
My aching calves,
The constant headaches
From holding my head too high.
But eventually,
As all soft land does,
Everything starts to collapse.
Who knew that a few drops of water
Mixed with blood and grief
Could create this current
Flowing through me.
I pretend I am a dam,
But I am nothing more than
loose earth being swept apart
By the universe taking away
What belongs to itself.
Who just mourn
Slower and longer.
One of those people
Within whom
Grief travels slowly through,
A barely perceptible trickle
At first,
So small and unnoticeable,
That they mistake me for a rock.
And then the trickle become a
Stream
Caught behind my eyes,
And I can hold it back
Redirect it through
The trenches of my rigid back,
My aching calves,
The constant headaches
From holding my head too high.
But eventually,
As all soft land does,
Everything starts to collapse.
Who knew that a few drops of water
Mixed with blood and grief
Could create this current
Flowing through me.
I pretend I am a dam,
But I am nothing more than
loose earth being swept apart
By the universe taking away
What belongs to itself.
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