The leaves crackle
beneath boots heavy
with our tension
the thread winds
and it winds
and it winds,
stretched taut
with every word
yelled quietly.
A game of telephone
family gossip factory
pumping out misspoken
and misheard
words. Peacemaker
sticking their nose in the
cerulean fire.
On forced walks
we pick pinecones
and get pricked
by their sharp
edges hard enough
to cause pain,
not quite to bleed.
Outside the pine walls
where my windpipe
can fall open
hearth smoke drifts and congests
and it smells like autumn.
YOU ARE READING
My Year of Unrest: a collection of poems I wrote in 2020
PoetryA collection of poems from 2020 that act as my diary as I deal with anxiety, starting antidepressants for the first time, the pandemic, and the unstable socio-political climate in the United States. Critique is welcome and encouraged. Some poems ar...
