Tag Archives: san diego

Leaving San Diego

 

I’m not sorry
your sorrow seeped into my ink
forging your truth in my notebook, unwillingly.

Perhaps
you are sorry,
regretful
for letting me know
it was you.

Alas,
like you I am a poet.
And from my ink to yours,
how could I not know it to be you?

I hold your heart
endlessly
as you left it
lying,
bleeding
for me.

I’m sorry I needed to feel
in presence of your feverish eyes.
But,
I do not know how to be yours
when you won’t have me.

The most sublime act
is to put another before you.
I know this
and so, it seems,
do you.

Smiling is a lie
I show millions
and you –
you see me,
bloodied,
beaten,
brought to tears by my own pen.
And you –
you walk on.

Healing,
for me,
is new
as I’ve spend centuries
fighting alone.

My strength?
Sometimes
I have to convince myself of its existence.
I’m not sure if it’s another act
or another mask.

I am teacher,
the only truth I believe
and I am walking on ashes
of my yesterday
without students.
It weakens my will,
my reason for being.

So,
I hope you understand why I must go.

I must find again
a shimmer,
reaching far within cold, coal mines
my diamond strength,
my light.

I know my pain exists as a lesson
that will serve to build with brute force,
an ability to reach those
who clench eyes with might
as perhaps now
they will see,
within me,
a true reflection of their pain.

I promise though
to return with electric force
that blackens city as I
be
    bop
be

diddy

        bop
back
and continue on
stronger,
more grandiose and radiant than imagined.

And Poet,
from one pen to another,
I will fight on,
always.

It’s hard to know
your heart beats within my notebook
without the rest of you
but
I am a poet walking same path.

Love is rotten with tales of loss and ruin
that you and I have no time for.
You’ve got healing.
I,
I must begin mine.
Together,
we could impress each other to the grave
and,
kindred traveler,
there are too many poems to go on writing.
Love,
as you said,
a cliché to be left in fiction.
Still though,
it’s hard to not wish myself a writer of love stories
and not a writer of poetry
cursed with never having
the one
who was
and is
and always will be
but never was allowed.

Copyright © Ellen Garrity 2011