I wrote a poem about you last year.
I wanted to feel hopeful, like it would get better.
Like somehow these words I put down on this paper will make it okay.
Somehow these endless combinations of the same 26 letters will take it away.
If I keep spewing this nonsense, in an attempt to heal, maybe time will rewind.
Maybe you will have never shot yourself in the head.
I think I’m wrong, but somehow,
Somewhere deeply fucked up inside my brain, I almost believe I’m right.
I think poets have to be at least one foot out of reality to do this.
We feel every emotion so deeply, and we want to self destruct, but we’re so out of touch,
We don’t.
We stay alive and we write about how you didn’t and we wait patiently for our insanity to eat us up and spit us out.
We imagine what it was like when you took your last breath,
And if your soul died when they shut off the machine that kept you breathing,
Or if your soul died when the bullet entered your skull,
Or if your soul died before.
Your soul was on fire, and you quoted Nietzsche and made us all laugh hysterically,
And so that fucked up out of touch poet part of me thinks that your soul still hasn’t died.
And I write about how If I just go back to that spot where I remember you alive,
Maybe you’ll be there.
Maybe your soul will still be on fire, and you will still be quoting philosophy, and we’ll still laugh hysterically.
However, I’m beginning to think I’m just hysterical.
