Adventures in Poetry

So.

I wrote two versions of this piece a while ago - one while I was still in Hampton, and another last...March, I think. The second version maintains a bit of the beginning but changes near the end to be some tragic angsty thing about being a teenager and suicide and never giving up and bla bla bla bla....

Anyway.

Driving to work this morning, felt the sudden urge to revisit the original and do some editing (content not form). Not at all pretending that the poem is good (it has some awesome moments here and there)....but it is the most honest thing i've written in a while, so. Enjoy.
---

the hardest thing i've ever done is missed them both at the same time
the heavy of my secret
pressed to the skull with nowhere to go but inward
i still dream of us
an entire family
growing old on some beach though none of us swim
the children making sandcastles with smooth stones and seashells
their laughter riding out with the waves
and there is no front porch
or rocking chair
or heavy branched willow
but something in the sunset still smells like Savannah
i grew up enough Georgia to cook like my mother
and here
i would always be home
not so much wayward traveller with a handful of nickels and a story to honor the homeless
here's my confession
testimony
sacrifice and atonement
a tear and an alter to begin the burnt offering
tell Elijah to call on his God
if this type of heartbreak isn't stigmata enough for a valley to cling to its savior
then i don't believe these bones will live
although they've seen too much to die
call that a rock
or a hard place
or one of those things
just call it by name
and then call me
i'm a master at just in time
going all in with this last chance
i tell you my poker face is relentless
i've learned to glow bluff to bones with God
learned to carry the weight of this world on my words
i know how easy the promise is made
i can tell you the cost of forgiveness
studied well what it means to pay
to shuffle close
to butterfly tiptoe through darkness until you're nose to nose with a mirrored reflection of what you've run away from
here we are
a fiction novel at best
at worst nightmares again
and no poem
will ever know what it meant to say goodbye to your children
she
would be nine years old by now
he'd be learning to write his name
they'd both love their brother like David loved God
and we
would be something like a fairy tale
not this horror story and biohazard hammering beats in the pit of my belly
threatning always to find release in the speakerbox of silent tears
we'd be a miracle of music
they'd be the center of my spine
in the dream
i'm good at this
in the dream
they're still alive.
---
Peace Be