I gave, I gave, I gave,
I got knots.
I opted out.
I stopped.
I knocked,
E knocked,
Miles over me,
and miles under my feet,
I walked, I walked.
I saw,
E saw,
saw a lot.

I coudn’t not see,
I couln’t not scream.
I screamed,
I cried.
I felt my scream
get shoved back inside.
It ripped like a knife in my gut.
I kicked and bucked but could not get up.
I saw myself die.
I hovered,
mouth covered,
tears in my eye.
I saw
E saw
I saw a lot.
I gave, I gave, I gave,
I got.

Poetry has always been a way for me to put words to trauma, to puke out what I don’t want to sit like a knot in my gut.  Writing has always been such a good outlet for me.  Finding my voice began in a living journal.  I couldn’t see tomorrow until I acknowledged yesterday.  Hope is coming in little bursts of optimism, but it is coming.

It is good to be.  88

I am glad I did not die.  The present is a gift.




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