It’s been days since I heard
music from yonder or
what aromas fill up homes or
snippets of solitary lives that
keep hearts close.
I pass by and hear muffled voices
from behind closed doors
The ones left ajar only open
onto empty rooms
How are we supposed to go on?
The mornings are eerily quiet
no birds sing, the air is damp
and I can hear my own breath
ragged and heavy.
Once someone wrote to me saying my poems should be happier and hopeful. But shouldn’t we also acknowledge and work through the darkness?
I work relentlessly, never wasting a moment, trying to stay motivated and pushing others to do the same. But I also cannot disregard the setbacks, the emptiness that sometimes creeps in, the feeling of loss.
Life cannot be romanticized all the time. How are we supposed to ‘be’ ourselves, if we cannot ‘accept’ ourselves?
Here’s wishing you plenty of birdsong and doors that open onto full rooms. But also, moments of reflection that resound with your own, ragged breath.