Grief Written

I'm sleeping on your side of the bed, And this isn't a metaphor. It doesn't mean that I miss you, Or that I'm moving on, Or that I can't sleep on my side, Or that I needed a change. It just means I'm sleeping on your side of the bed. This isn't a metaphor. This isn't a poem. It's more of a log than anything. Insomniac log #1 I'm sleeping on your side of the bed. But it's not your side It's mine. The whole bed is mine. Insomniac log #1 a bed is just a bed, it isn't a metaphor. Insomniac log #1 reminder for the morning: stop turning people and objects into things that they're not. Sometimes a bed is just a bed, and a boy is just a boy. The world is not poetry, it's a planet that orbits our sun in the solar system and belongs to a universe. Something bigger and outside of us. Still not a metaphor. Things are not always other things. Insomniac log #1 still not a metaphor, still not a poem, Still on yo

I have poems tucked in my ribcage, like babies tucked into wombs. I have so many things that I want to say, lines unspoken. But like babies you should never force them into the world until they're ready. Until their developed, Comfortable, Ready to face everything outside the safety of my body. So far now, I'll let them grow in my heart. Stretch their syllables, Lines kicking every now and then. and when they're ready I'll deliver them here to you.