Sweet Escape

My poem "Heavy" 

Rain.

The calming pitter patter that used to make anywhere feel like home

Is now the scattered noise that leaves me worrisome.

There is so much fear in my life;

Fear of the future, fear of pain, fear of now, fear of a reoccurring past in the present.

There were the nights that I could sleep through the storm,

When I wouldn’t even hear it emerge from the rhythmic patter of light rain.

But I am now fearful of the storm, as it mirrors the present,

And reflects the triumphant thundering storms swarming from my core.

And the light patter of rain picking up into violent masses of water smashing into the ground

To recall the heaviness of my heart and my being that I’m growing oh so tiresome of carrying,

As it seems the others are growing tiresome too.

I can’t remember the last time someone genuinely asked how I’ve been carrying myself around,

While they expect me to put in all the energy that I don’t even have to cater to their needs;

What are friends, really? What do they do?

Do they sit with you, in that storm, offer you their hand as you’ve offered yours,

Or do they send you out to be tormented in their storms?

What is loyalty, what is comfort really?

If their is comfort in the storm, where does that comfort lay? 

Where is shelter when friends won’t share their roofs?

Heavy

I wrote this poem on the 22nd of April, 2013.
It's been over a year and I'm no longer afraid to remember this, it is a lesson now. I've grown, I've learned from the mistakes I made, from the time I spent with that certain someone. They are no longer apart of my life, so there is no need to dread on the past. But I still wanted to record the poem regardless.

"22nd Of April"
The feeling

Of something so delicate crumbling into my hands

I never knew how quickly things would turn to dust.

I wished that the rain would wash away the evidence,

Wash away the feeling.

But instead it grew colder,

though the earth never asked to pause.

I still recall the texture of my palms,

When I remembered the texture of their’s.

But now it is cold.

The warmth in my core fading.

I shiver at the thought of warmth.

I quiver at the memory

Trembling.

Trembling.

The colder rain

Reflected another part of me

That I had once forgotten.

Another memory I fear to recall.

I remember.

I remember.

22nd Of April

Spoken poetry. 
Genuinely from the heart, mind, and soul. 

aubredine