Full Poem- “He’s There”
There’s a fear that crouches inside
the attics of the homes in the towns
of my mind.
He says, “look, you see, my time is
almost here, my time to be realized
and I look forward to opening this
He’s a decrepit thing, a thing
with no mass, yet still weighs.
He hides behind old chests and
wheel-able clothing racks, runs his
hand along the plastic that keeps
the dust off the sweaters, the
jackets. Like them, he is waiting to
be worn, to be felt again on bare
He says, “don’t pick up the pen,
you’ve written the same poem a
hundred times, your words are
falling flat, lifeless sentiments killed
by time- they move no one. Your
metaphors are weak, dated, your
thoughts bland, hot water but the
tea tin is empty. Stop wasting paper.”
When I do venture, I stay away from
the attics, climb the stairs but I don’t
pull on any overheads.
The tears are still wet with love and
pain, the blood still fills the capillaries
in my eyes, and a blank page is still
potential and not a thing that mocks or
makes me feel inadequate.
My metaphors are here and there,
but at least they come, and if I gave
them more love they would accept it-
I need to give them more love.
They aren’t dead yet.
My hands still want to write, they still
pretend they are legs strolling
through Pennsylvania pastures and
parading down the streets of the
cities I used to love.
I still feel things and things still hurt
me. I still love and love still hurts me.
But each day I awake to another
innocent thing stolen, another dream
left on the eisle unpainted, another
poem that I didn’t devote all of my
I still feel things, and things still hurt
But not as much as they did yesterday