A confidant asked me recently
(Gently, as is their way)
How, when I pick up that tool
I know when I’m finished
The author and site owner can be reached at leeundercedartrees@gmail.com.
A confidant asked me recently
(Gently, as is their way)
How, when I pick up that tool
I know when I’m finished
Whispering engine
Doubts creeping, should not be here
Among melting snow
Apx. 7:15 – 7:30 p.m.
A quarter century of shadows
Coating the brain
Decades of void
Staining the heart
Tomorrow arrived
With neither fanfare nor doom
And became tonight
Quietly
Without incident
Time after time I cast those stones back to its pinned head
Bloodied it raw — tore the faceless mass to ribbons
A pebble for every tear trapped behind a dry eye
A rock for every scream buried in a tight chest
…
Many anxious evenings
I want to burn every word I’ve written
…
Over a great bonfire of massive flames
Reaching for the atmosphere
Dreaming of visiting the stars
…
I’m sick of poems
I’m sick of feeling like I’m whining
I’m sick of fear
I’m sick of caring
I’m sick to death of me and all my bullshit
Something’s gotta change
So let’s change
February 20, 2025
Voice can’t be found as
Imaginary eyes see
All my unknown faults
(Anxiety is omniscient.)
The other night as I drifted off to sleep
With tiny quiet dread, my heart whispered to me
A wicked truth newly discovered:
Late night mind wanderings on how I’m a mistake, written late last night, forgotten, then found in the morning.
My existence
Is incorrect
Is a mistake
Is impossible to fix
Is a thorn in many sides
Is not supposed to be
Is not supposed to be
Is not
I’m not supposed to be here
I’m not supposed to be
I’m not supposed to
I’m not
February 12, 2025, apx. 11 p.m.