(or Sprinklers in Graveyards)
So,
Last night, minutes before I would fall into a restless sleep, I was of course watching Netflix. Rewatching one of my favorite series for the sixth time, I noticed something strange.
While one of the main characters was at a grave, mourning his lost love, a sprinkler went off in the graveyard.
How ironic that we try to keep something living when it is surrounded by death.
The still living grass would glint in the moonlight while corpses remain under dirt and foot prints from their families who don't visit anymore. And I will be standing in the shower, staring at cigarette ashes smeared on the walls. Wondering why anyone would make a vulnerable place so dirty.
Last night,
I felt the blanket of loneliness wrap it's arms around me. Stroked my hair until it fell out. Hair all over my laptop keyboard, I lied there missing everything. My parents, friends, birthday parties, walking the streets of unfamiliar cities with unfamiliar people. I wanted to cry but water can't flow through dry lakes without first soaking into the ground.
How strange that we dig up the dead for a poem only to bury their body back into soil that ate their flesh.
But it's only a TV show. Just fiction. I shouldn't be worried about what's underground.
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Fragmentation
PoetryFragmentation// the process or state of breaking or being broken into small or separate parts. ××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××× It's hard for me to complete my poems. And I finally decided to share some of my poetry with strangers. These...
