So I’ve gotten into poetry...
untitled by Brian Michael Derrick
 Some would say that “I Have a lot on my plate.”
I don’t. That would mean I have somewhere to put my fill.
 See, my mind makes me feel like my cabinets are empty,
Like I’m living out of boxes and nothing is where it needs to be.
I’m sitting here, cross legged on the floor
praying to god that what little I have doesn’t slip through my hands
and stain the floor below me and leave me starving.
And I feel guilty. Fully knowing that I could have it so much worse
but my head won’t let me think otherwise.Â
So overwhelmed that I don’t even notice he’s right next to me.
He says I should open up, “tell him what’s wrong”- and he’s right- I should.
what would happen to the mess I make when I do?
could he be double ply paper towel or a warm rag?
Is this really what he wants?
Because when I spill, we’re both responsible for the aftermath.
My mind feels like that one roller coaster that goes on too long
That the seat next to you is emptyÂ
and there’s no release on the restraints.
But he’s still there next to me. The seat isn’t empty.Â
I look down and see the inevitable.
With every thought, I feel a trickle of sustenance pass through my fingers
With every word I speak, a drip on the floor.
He wipes up the spill with the shirt off his back.
He cups his hands with mine and lightens the burden.
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