Denial

- The Seasons Of Grief: Chapter I - Poem XII -

I refuse to believe that the clouds have scorned me with truth,

Their masochistic whirlwinds cause late April to feel unmoored

The stanzas curve like blades of grass, rough but can still soothe,

I can’t seem to focus on the perspective in front of me, it’s still blurred

I started to write my trauma in the absence of lines,

My tears stain the pages of May like that of a child

When I couldn’t hold the pen anymore, I paced and pined,

And prayed to God that all this tortured art may turn into something worthwhile

My rivers of thought washed away and became unchecked and undone,

It drowned the voice that told me it was going to be the best possible scenario

It was far too late when I realized that all I wanted was already gone,

And that it’ll never come to fruition, the passage of time will always go

I buried my head in the garden to try and block out the thorns,

The marigolds and poppies only did so much to hold my psychotic breakdown

The angels in my life became devils with twisted horns,

They took my safe space and turned it into an unforeseen ground

The lies I told spread like footnotes in margins unclean,

A playwright was written to combat the turmoil of thoughts

The author annotated the past with March verses so green,

In the future, I will tear up at the narrative my illusions brought

The unwritten versions of me I’ll never see will always remain,

They’re too broken to resolve, so they sit in corners and watch me work

They surprise me sometimes in chapters I don’t wish to reclaim,

In my darkest hour, they’ll decide to lurk

Bound in the cover of unwritten goodbyes,

Writing front to back, the book of grief will kill me if I let it

I sometimes make myself cry just to make better rhymes,

So that I may be free of this pain and rejoice when I burn the book that made me live it

I close this chapter with the end of spring and the stage of denial