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June 11, 2017 - 209 words
Sometimes it feels good to stay in this sadness
like sitting too long
in an over-chlorinated pool that keeps my skin dry and my hair brittle.
Something to keep me occupied.
Maybe it feels deeper than it is
so I can convince myself
I’m having an authentic human experience
that others are afraid to try.
The stinger in my heart is still here
and I’m used to it now
it feels comfortable and familiar.
Without it, something else might hurt.
Sorrow feels like an acceptable shield
against the future terrors in this universe.
I’m worried I’ll never overcome it and hopeful it will reward me one day
but in the meantime I make more friends
late-blooming perennial searchers
people who don’t need a quote from The Simpsons as a framework to facilitate connection.
Sometimes I think
if I have too many of these wanderers in my life
floating like seeds in the wind
we’ll prevent each other from finding a path.
But maybe there is no path.
I have no more words.
This poem sucks.
Learning how to cook is nice.
I spend an hour and prepare a real meal.
I always make enough for two people
so I have a lunch the next day.