bound by wayward hands this–a life I did not seek breaks my lonely heart
never a first choice played with and sought after when life seems relentless
he didn’t pick me he didn’t pick me either do I still matter
I shouldn’t give up it’s my positive outlook but I do worry
will I die alone never knowing heart’s true love or will I bounce back
I haven’t lost faith men whisper about my smile I’m still a good catch
Thank you Clay Riversfor giving me the opportunity to gift this poem to you, and for being vulnerable enough to request it. I hope I’ve done your request justice. Peace and blessings.
To learn more about Your Poem From Me: The Giving Cause, click here.Let me write a poem for you. I can give it life
From a harsh windstorm, we had in my area over the weekend. Friday, March 18, 2022. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
I haven’t gone a full day without crying since your death. Some days, I think, “This could be the day. A full day with no tears”, and then I hear, smell, see, or remember something that has you all over it, and I begin to puddle. Triggers . . . I hate to dub them as harshly as I have, but that is what these things are . . . Triggers.
I haven’t been myself lately.
How can I be myself without you? I am writing more; fulfilling requests from interested people, doing what I said I always wanted to do. You have always been vocal about my writing and supported it undeniably.
The little things pump their way into my view, and I find myself trying to shun them without several blinks.
I don’t want to really see them. I don’t really need to. Do I?
After I lost the part-time gig, I waited a few months and sold my car. We discussed this. It was best for me, and at the time, financially fruitful I was not. You listened intently, knowing I’d do what I needed to in order to get back on track.
Four months later, I am at a place where breathing is easier and above water is where my head seems to rest. The Powers That Be saw fit to give me a raise, and I paid down two bills significantly. I set my eyes on another vehicle, purchased it, and blended my life into the interior of a compact Chevy I call, “Solo.”
I wanted you to know, but I couldn’t tell you. Not like before. There’s no actual way of getting the news to you, but I speak to the air. I whisper to the clouds. I pray that you will hear my faint-barely-holding-on statements to you when no one else is around.
We have had several windstorms — weird for this time of year. A tree toppled my neighbor’s car. I’d just moved mine to venture out to the store, and when I came back, she and her sons were outside assessing the damage. My jaw dropped, as I’d not had Solo a full four hours, and had I not left for the store when I did, I would have been outside, alongside her, shaking my damn head.
I prayed for her to have patience — for her to gain what she needs monetarily to get another car. I prayed for any emotional distress she will endure — for the will and fight to duke it out with her insurance company and our property manager.
I look at her deformed vehicle — and send a word of thanks to God for making sure she was not in it.
I come inside my quiet apartment, pat the dog on her head, give her a treat, and put the groceries away. It had been nineteen hours without one teardrop. I read an article and watch a commercial about a fellow artist who is taking her art to new levels and the tears begin.
Triggers. That is what these things are . . . Triggers.
I know you see me, I KNOW you do. Who you see before you is not who you say I am. What must I do to get you to see this person instead of who you claim to see?
A moment’s glance–a few more seconds, and you will realize your error, this is what I think . . . but I’ve been proven wrong more times than I care to count. I am not a woman. I am not a woman. I AM NOT! See me. SEE ME!
When I open my mouth, you come to grips with your ignorance; a pronoun you selected for me isn’t applicable to me–where does this leave us? Out in a cold area without much probability of return as you consistently take us there every chance you get.
I am tired of explaining myself; exhausted from covering the subject. Here, see . . . this is my name–address me by name only.
Let it sink in. Let it build. Let it mold. Let it marinate.
A little compassion is what I seek–some understanding is welcome. I am so tired of a world that doesn’t care enough about a person to simply respect them.
We must change. We need to change. We have to change.
Thank you again to Matt Snyderfor allowing me to gift another poem to you. Writing this one felt as if it would touch many others. I hope it does.
To learn more about Your Poem From Me: The Giving Cause, click here.Let me write a poem for you. I can give it life
I tell myself, I am glad you did not live to see this world as it unravels right before our eyes. Destruction is at every turn; children bombed, mothers, sons, families scrambling to leave home . . . the home they have always known. We would have talked about this — voiced our disdain for the evil of this world, yet we would have mentioned our gratefulness too. There is this gaping hole in my heart I have been struggling to fill, and the only thing I can do is write — write about you; about your smile, about your love, about the way you never bit your tongue.
All I can do is just write, and pray this hole fills itself with something — someone — anything else soon.
a piece of my heart is buried in this cold world my cousin is gone
He hadn’t known she would leave first thing in the morning. The argument they had the night before tested the strength of their relationship. They had failed. They were failing - he was blind to it all before. The colder side of his bed lured him over and he turned to lie in the space she left. His heart pulsed and his hands twitched. His pillow was wet. Had he cried while he was asleep? Why couldn’t she have waited to say goodbye?
The bedroom was dark - no light had entered during the morning hours. He limped over to the window and pulled the curtains back - opened the blinds. He would make a fresh, hot pot of coffee. It was something she’d always done, but she was not there.
While the percolator purred, he checked their closets. All of her things were gone. The skis they purchased together the year before were too. She’d always said she’d take those if they split. She kept her word. He searched the bathrooms for reminders. A few strands of her auburn hair rested at the mouth of the sink - waiting to be washed down. He feathered them gently between his two fingers before releasing them.
The sound of the running water prompted tears to fall. He stood there - buck naked and unashamed - alone with his tears. He took two deep breaths and sat down on the toilet. This was a thing Ava hated - him spending far too much time in the bathroom - far too much time on the porcelain throne. Far too much time sheltered and shuttered away from her. He sighed. His world had been crumbling - cracking - and he would not pick the pieces up in time to move on.
***
He poured the piping hot coffee into his favorite mug. The quote on it said, “Go be great. Then, sleep.” Ava hated the mug. But he drank from it every day, anyway. The morning sun pressed itself on his stony face and found its home underneath his eyes. Tuning the radio, he selected his favorite channel to listen to some music. The last thing he needed was a blast from the past that led him to more thoughts of Ava. More tears. More momentary solitary seconds of surefire sadness. He wept . . . He wept . . . He fell into the pits of depression.
The day was beginning without him, and he knew he had to shake himself free from the tight grip of melancholy. He had a presentation at work in two days and, knowing his boss as he did, he knew he would need to make some last-minute changes. Ava would help him with his presentations by sitting and listening to him as he mock-presented his work. She would critique and applaud and give him the support he needed.
He set up the area, created the projection onto his living room wall, and talked to an invisible audience. Halfway through his concept, the tears crept in once again. He lowered his body to the floor and sunk into the plush carpet. He’d call in sick - surely he could not work today. As soon as he reached for his phone, a message appeared from Ava.
“Hey, I’ve forgotten a few things. I’ll be over before you head out to work. Shouldn’t take long.”
He read the message five times before settling back into the floor - his body curled into itself, alone with his thoughts of . . . her . . . and the reality of the end of them.
A Cornered Gurl 
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