Confessions of a Fabulaphile @the-owl-poet - Tumblr Blog

I am looking for A place to worship And oh, You bring me to My knees What right (Rite) Do I have to do What I long to do To show you The divinity Of you I feel I must Dip my hands in Holy water Just to touch you

~ Sacred; 3/2/25

#love #writing #my writing

If ever I should Lose half my mind Let the years only take The sadness The anger and the grief Steal the loss And the regrets And whatever else Brings shade to days And leave the rest To me Please leave the love behind Leave me the warm Memories The soft ones The light

~ Please Leave the Love Behind; 2/19/25

#love #memory #light #peace #writing #my writing #memory loss

I know what it is To find comfort In strange places To find the fragile Threads of solace In the waves of aching To sink onto a sofa And find the bracelet You gave me In the cracks that are revealed The one I thought I'd lost (You, or the bracelet?) Or losing my balance Stepping into Black shoes (Black dress Black sweater Black scarf) And catching myself On your clothing Releasing a wave Of your scent (Your jacket feeling Like an embrace As wire hangers chime) This peculiar succor Within the nest of lingering pain It makes me wonder if, In his last moments of aching, The son of a carpenter Inhaled the scent Of the freshly hewn cross And felt (For a moment) At home

~ Strange Places; 1/4/24

#love #loss #grief #writing #my writing #memory

You don't just grieve For people You don't just mourn A death You can grieve For lost chances And dreams Other paths not taken A life that now Can never be An apology That won't ever come You can mourn A relationship broken (Or that never happened) Betrayed trust An era in your life That won't ever come again The neighborhood changed By time The house where someone else Lives now Or You can keep these things In your pockets In a cigar box under your bed In your warm palm This friendship, this kiss, this summer Those high school years Those two weeks on the farm That one perfect day The 22 years you got together You can hold on to Those golden times Like jewels in your pocket And every now and then You can take Them out And hold them to the light Remembering each And every facet And flaw While the sunlight Warms your skin You can let them Cast rainbows On your face And remember How much they shined

~ Gemstones (Hiraeth); 4/30/23

#love #memory #grief #loss #growth #writing #my writing #nostalgia #hiraeth

This is what time travel is: Looking at someone Looking at their face Looking at their photograph Looking at their chair Looking at their shoes Looking at their pillow Their closet Their handwriting The places where they should be And being in two places at once Then and now (Before and after) Seeing all the different versions Of them That you got to meet To know To love To miss And visit Every time you look At their face Their photograph Their chair Their shoes, pillow, closet, handwriting This is what time travel is: Memory

~ This is What Time Travel Is; 12/8/22

#love #grief #loss #growth #memory #writing #my writing

Still around...

...just living life, and writing more things...

#me #personal

Grief is love. Grief is overflowing, a surplus of love. It’s love you want to give and give and give, that you need to give…but cannot. All of this unused, unspent love, choking you, blinding you, welling up in your eyes, making a lump in your throat, seeping into the newly hollow holes in your chest. Grief is love with no one to give it to. Love with nowhere to go.

~ Empty Love; 12/6/18

#writing #my writing #squeakowl #the owl poet #grief #loss #death #tw: death #love #prose #the hardest parts

They tell me to just “let it out”. I can’t. I just can’t. I am afraid. Not of letting someone in. My nerves and heart are already raw, they couldn’t possibly be more vulnerable. I am afraid of letting it out. Of letting me out. The shrieking thing that screams in the cold dark place where the grief lives, that I try to, at best, pretend is empty now. But it’s not empty, not when the slightest touch can set me to gasping from the terrible bone-deep pain. I’m afraid of the hungry, howling version of me that lives in that horrible, lonely, dangerous place. I feel like if I let the walls tumble and let my guard down…something will happen. Something not-good. That I’ll do something, or hurt someone, or hurt myself. Or maybe I’ll just quietly implode and fall to dust.

~ Let it Out, Let it In; 12/6/18

#writing #my writing #squeakowl #the owl poet #grief #loss #death #tw: death #the hardest parts #prose

Talk. Just talk. About anything, I don’t care what. Just talk. I do not want To listen to My thoughts. I do not want To be alone With myself.

~ Distract Me; 12/6/18

#writing #my writing #squeakowl #the owl poet #grief #loss #death #tw: death #the hardest parts #poem #poetry #mental illness #self-care

Am I dead, too? I must be. How can you say I am not? My heart is gone. My life – Gone. I hurt so much. How can I hurt So much And not be Dying? How has this Pain so deep Not killed me Yet?

~ Me Too; 12/6/18

#writing #my writing #squeakowl #the owl poet #grief #loss #death #tw: death #poem #poetry #the hardest parts

It isn’t the fear of losing someone that is so frightening. It’s that you give so many pieces of yourself to them that you are afraid of losing parts of yourself when they go. Every day you are together, bits of you are cut away, like scraps of fabric, and woven into, and over, and under, and around them, and their pieces are woven into you, and both of you are, for better or worse, bound fast. A tapestry of heartstrings. It hurts to be wrenched apart at the seams, raw edges exposed and unraveling. And there’s only so much darning and mending you can do.

~ Woven; 12/6/18

#writing #my writing #squeakowl #the owl poet #grief #loss #death #tw: death #prose #the hardest parts

Pitching forward Hands gripping Grasping Vision tilting My heart is not Prepared for this I was supposed To have more time I am supposed To be able To handle this It was not supposed To break me in half Over And over Can I still consider it A heartbreak When my whole body Is soul-broken

~ Tiny Pieces; 12/5/18

#writing #my writing #squeakowl #the owl poet #grief #loss #death #tw: death #poem #poetry #the hardest parts

I feel…stitched together. But not like the haphazard, poorly-sewn scarecrow I’ve been, falling apart at the seams, with all my stuffing on display for the world to see. But I haven’t quite gotten to the lovingly-repaired-teddy-bear stage of mending yet. I feel like Frankenstein’s monster. Like I’m sort of me, but sort of pieced together from other people, too, because parts of me are missing. So I find stop-gaps that aren’t really me, but will have to do – platitudes, and self-help books, and counseling, and advice. And I walk, and I talk, and I sort of exist. But even though I’ve existed for a while now, I have to relearn how to live. How to deal with everyday life, how to interact with people without scaring them by revealing what I really am – half a person, waiting for lightning to strike and make me feel like I’m human again. To make me feel anything again. I guess I have to just keep living until I feel like I’m alive again.

~ The Modern Prometheus; 12/5/18

#writing #my writing #squeakowl #the owl poet #grief #loss #death #tw: death #prose #the hardest parts

I still see you in My head. I hear your voice. Do you think I will ever stop? Do you think I will forget? I am afraid. I am afraid I will.

~ Afraid; 12/3/18

#writing #my writing #squeakowl #the owl poet #grief #loss #death #tw: death #poem #poetry #the hardest parts

Don’t. Please, don’t Treat me like I’m made of glass. I cannot break anymore. I am already in pieces. And when you insist On insulating me From normal life And wrapping me In layers, And layers, And layers Of cotton wool, I am left Alone. Isolated With nothing but my thoughts. God knows I don’t need that. When I’m alone with My thoughts, I feel like I’m going to die. I feel like I’m Already dead. So don’t coddle me – Facing life with no buffer Is the only way To bring me back To the land of the living.

~ Muffled; 12/2/18

#writing #my writing #squeakowl #the owl poet #grief #loss #death #tw: death #poem #poetry #the hardest parts

When you mourn someone, there’s always that moment of perfect bliss, that beautiful few seconds when you first wake up…and you’ve forgotten. Everything’s fine. And then, of course, everything is not fine at all, and you remember everything, and it all comes crashing back down on top of you and you feel like you’re going to suffocate, like you’re drowning. And it keeps on like that for weeks. Months, or even a few years. It’s always the first things you think of when you wake up, the first things you remember. Until, one day, it’s the second thing. And then the tenth thing. And eventually you can go for a few days barely thinking of it at all. It’s always there, but it mellows. It fades and gets better. The tide ebbs, eventually, and you get a little better, and a little better, and you start to heal. You get to the days where you wake up and everything is almost fine, or as fine as it can be. It will always hurt. But someday it will stop feeling like it’s killing you.

~ First Things First; 12/2/18

#writing #my writing #squeakowl #the owl poet #grief #loss #death #tw: death #prose #the hardest parts

Every single day for the rest of my life, you’ll only be further away. Every morning, every cup of coffee, every phone call, every cab ride, every Christmas, every sandwich, every conversation…it just pushes us further apart. And I just this morning realized that I’ve been missing you for almost as long as I knew you. It seems both like an eternity and a breath.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve finally, finally, started to miss you a little less. Well, no. Not miss you less. I’ll never not miss you. Maybe ache less, yearn less. But never miss less.

~ Missing; 12/2/18

#writing #my writing #squeakowl #the owl poet #grief #loss #death #tw: death #prose #the hardest parts

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