Writing

I traveled on the cobblestone, 

This sweet and utter scent, 

It teases me with memories, 

Of often younger drenched. 

Dear Santa, 

I haven't quite proposed,  

For many moons I've prayed to you, 

Yet hurts to leave me lone. 

When you lose your art

you cry.

your music,

your drawings, your poems

gone.

there goes happiness.

there goes memories.

there goes progress;

and problems.

there she goes.

I was on a plane

I don't know

the rest.

I don’t like my name

not this one, the one I stole

from a great grandmother

I never met

the one I stole from

an Irish goddess

I do not write happy things.

Today I will.

Today I will breathe

ignore the sick feeling growing

in the back of my throat.

Today I will drink water

feel it burn the raw throat