I've been contemplating the meaning of writing.

What makes a poem good?

Why do some things tug on our heart strings while others don't?

Why do some tellings of a trope make me cringe and others not?

What makes good writing good?

Is it the soul you out into it?

The heart left sitting on the page?

Is it the words you use?

Their dissonance, elegance and phrase?

Is it something all together different?

Like the sweet immortality of the Gods?

Or is it a pleasant face, a trying grace, and a determination to continue on

I know exactly that feeling. The feeling where your words get choked and they won't come out. The moment where everything that made sense somehow ran out. When I could of sworn, a second ago, I had something intelligent to say. That feeling, when everything you known suddenly dies away. Then the panic sets in. Heart beats. Breath spins. Don't know what is down or when this ends. Names of disorders swirl accesos my head: broken, unfixable, what will happen next?

Disassociation sets in. Is this the world that I'm in?

Hands start shaking, they don't seem like my own. Sounds and lights fade away, in darkness I'm left alone. It brings peace and life. Even if reality is already gone.

And in here, I hide until the tears start rolling. Until sadness and despair are the only things life has left to share.

Then, I sit frozen:

unmovable

unfixable

broken

yet no matter how hard I try

I can't stop dying inside.

I know that feeling. That feeling where the world crashes down around me, when the walls break and it all comes tumbling down. I know that feeling. I have known it all my life

she was a proficient thief

who could steal the star dust

from the night sky

or all the dreams

hidden in the most stern

of hearts

I know

for she has stolen

all the parts of me

that ever mattered

& all she did was smile

the way

your words

wash over me

not unlike

the windswept sea

and like the tide

when it goes out

I know

you’ll take

a piece of me

I'm treading waters I was never meant to swim in.

Going against the current and crying out "why am I sinking?"

Submerged, wave after wave and barely breathing.

I reach for you, and I apologize for drowning.

The feeling of defeat weighing me down again.

I never even saw it was you who pulled me under,

Keeping me immersed in your ocean of lies and making me wonder,

Was it ever love or something other?

In isolation

it is They.

They the scattered

puzzle's parts

that lay

obscuring one

another overturned

upside down, sideways

in glances

a mess

we'd say.

Catching a glass

reflection

the taste bitter

pleasant, ruddy.

I deserve that reprimand

burning my tongue.

The tableau idyllic,

full cups, steaming

no piece missing

the scene.

Only people.

I lost her

Imposter

She said love was true

I thought if

We fought with

The demons that grew

That we could

Or she would

Accept a new view

Instead we

Have dead pleas

There’s nothing to do

To look back and reflect

how far I’ve come

to notice a shift

in the simple things

a clean, warm home.

to think I once couldn’t

and simply wouldn’t

the energy… the care

the motivation… the health

none of it was there

I get a glimpse of that life

it was like fighting for air

the simple air

it was not there…

it felt heavy and thick

it felt impossible

Yet here I am

looking back and reflecting

God was there.

he took me out of there

and brought me here

to ponder on this perspective of

how far I’ve come

i am here

the energy… the care

the motivation… the health

they’re all there

—KD

Let’s throw it away

The work doesn’t matter

We’ll say it was play and not care for the shatter

Let’s give up the pain

Why should we resist it?

Complain of our train after days that we missed it

Let’s find the next task

’Cause we have to keep going

We’ll tear off the mask and leave everything showing

Let’s sit down together

Never mind that’s insane

I guess birds of a feather will share the same brain

It would be crass, and more than a little stupid, to get a tattoo. But she couldn’t stymie the desire to brandish a badge of honor.

Her ear adorned with bullet earrings was a talking piece. It was hard to hide the great pride she felt knowing it was more than unique flair. Instead, or also, it was a testament to her sharpshooting.

She didn’t really feel like a murderer, if they even feel a universal way. She just felt like a girl with a talent, and a love of guns. Nothing was ever premeditated. Except the new bullet earring.