Writing Conversations – A Poet's Pen

Misscommunication

Maybe it’s because of the thoughts I have

That drown out what is real,

And what is not–

Maybe it’s my mouth replacing the air with water,

Heavy in my lungs,

Afraid of what will come up

Once I try to connect the words in my mind

To the sounds in my throat–closed.

I want to protect my heart from the heavy weight I hold

When I see you,

But I’ve realized I can’t see you.

How can I see you when I can’t see myself,

Or when I look around and find no familiarity in my surroundings?

Grey is now permeating everything I see—

So first, it starts with me.

I choose to remove the weight

And look forward to my day.

I focus on being present

When the past is pressing in on all sides,

Forcing me to hide.

I focus on having patience

When I feel wasted by

The people surrounding me on a daily basis.

I focus on communication,

And protecting my mind and my heart

from the forces around me asking me to change who I am

For them,

Because I am worth it.

I will say it over and over again,

That I am who I am,

Fallen and imperfect.

I love the cracks in my hands and freckles on my skin,

And the excitement I get from a small moment.

I ask nothing to forgive,

I only ask for a conversation,

Not a misinterpretation.

I ask for someone to see me past expectation.

See me as a living and breathing human who is prone to making mistakes.

See me as you would see yourself at the end of the day—

As a person.

Protected: The Breaking

Listen

Talking sounds more like listening

To bursts of thunder crackling in the distance

Filling the room with static

Until the build up in our space becomes charged with rage–

Until everything has changed–

Until our bodies become nothing but pieces of wreckage:

A chaotic explosion for the barren wasteland

Where our minds are left behind to deal with the aftermath

made by our hands.

Converse Sneakers

He converses with me in his converse sneakers

And pulls me in with a silence that holds me up in his arms.

The sharp edges of his body match his intensity

And beat into me to bring my heart back to life again

From its long sleep.

Memories

I remember him.

I remember the hours we sat together

Talking about life.

Sometimes I’d listen to stories

From his mission work days

Told in ways that made Africa

More than a place.

I saw his home, his friends,

And the countless voices that called him,

“Papay!”

I felt the table he built with his hands—

Strong hands under the sun

That worked until age touched

His body and taught him

Patience.

While I watched the road change

Into a water colored painting,

I drove to the home where he used to be.

I let death sting

My eyes and my heart

And I cried.