I have this habit
Of
Keeping "insignificant" little things.
Birthday cards, embarrassing childhood pictures , some early works of my poetry when I wasn't so cynical.
Things no one else would think twice about
I keep all this random "junk" in a wooden box under my bed
And
Whenever things get hard
And I struggle
On those days where living in my bed seems better than fighting the world outside
I lean over and open the box
And I read all those cheap birthday cards that tell me how wonderful I am
And my old poems about beauty and magic
And I remember that
Time passes
And when it does
Sometimes it takes the hurt right along right along with it
I remember that I'm loved
And I ready myself for battle.
YOU ARE READING
Breathing Water
Poetry"Hello? Are you there?" I call up to the wall. Standing at the bottom it makes me feel small. The wall blocks my view but I know that you're there. With this new wall in your life it's hard to show you I care. "Will you please let me in?" I lean...
