A Poem

I’m still writing about resolving the death

of something that already died

I’m still holding something of myself inside

where I keep the best of my secrets

I still have hope for healing though

I’m beginning to think Time has lied

I have only myself to whisper problems

and only myself to answer at night

I regret many of my choices

yet would change none of them

(except one, when she cried)

I know a heart can regrow and double its beats

I know, I already tried

there is no symbolism here

no mythology

no metaphors, nothing implied

this is not

a poem.

Reviews

[R.E. Ray]

JR, I believe from personal experience writing helps us heal. Oftentimes, the most profound poems are first drafts of head-junk dumped on paper or a computer screen--the raw, unfiltered ooze that we call authenticity and vulnerability.

Your comment about regrets and choices is an important lesson. As you've implied in this piece, we grow from life's good and bad, and though we might not like the outcome, we can grow from those experiences. And, it's pretty good when you have the talent to share it with others in work like this one.

[JR]

This is definitely a process of healing, with works like these ones. When I go back through my poetry, I end up liking about 1/3 of it... a lot is fragments. Very much the unfiltered ooze. I'm realizing everything is a process of growth, and the end result doesn't really matter... it's the journey that's important. Thanks, as always.

[R.E. Ray]

That's absolutely true! I've never written the perfect piece or perfected anything. But, I know I get a little better each time. That is the journey.