She offered me a fruitcake at Christmas, before Christmas I guess, and said... if you want one. The oven is broken and we’re getting a new one, they took eight hours to bake.

And I said of course I want one, I just didn’t think I was worthy of a fruitcake...

“It’s only a fruitcake.” She replied

And I said you can’t make seven with love and one with hate, and if you are going to make all with no heart at all then what was the point anyway? So there is no such thing as only a fruitcake, and

I will take one. Thanks.

#poetry

I have blood on my hands.

My own blood. My own bones

Under this lonesome moon

our neighbour dies

and I feel relief.

Pain dies when we do

Under this heavy moon

a tulip unfurls,

one curled petal

of deafening white

When pain appears

relief reveals itself

I release myself of guilt

for not being okay

My responsibility remains

for the things that I say

and the actions I take

under this moon

which is always full

even when we don’t see the light

Tonight

we speak through pain

I try to comfort one

who has mourned far more

than I can conceive

but I grieve too

We all do

Only a true friend

will call just to remind me

that the heart breaks

Your words sink in

like healing light

and I rejoice

under the hidden moon

I always know

where my friends are

when they answer my call

but you do not know

the relief I feel

when you howl first

Photo by Benjamin Voros on Unsplash

#moon #poetry #poem #Canadianpoet #love #friendship

We are each an act of fiction.

Love is not truth

It is

the best lie

we can

come up with.

We lie in love

And lay, in love

and craft the self

We think/we feel

Will fill the holes

of another

#poetry

I’m not sure what to do

I’m not sure exactly what I should do.

What do you want me to do?

The days are quickly ticking by, and before I know it -

It’s almost gone.

I know that crying would be useless

Wasteful

And distasteful

Because if they see my tears, I'll end up being ridiculed.

So, I shouldn’t.

But at the same time it’ll be the last time we meet

The last day we’ll laugh together and play together

So what if I shouldn’t?

Do I just leave my pools of tears somewhere at the back of my mind to rot and evaporate?

No, I can’t.

I won’t be able to forgive myself after

But the clog in my throat just won’t spin

And I end up not being able to speak my thoughts again

This feeling, however, is not pleasant

I would be full of smiles one second then those thoughts would run widely again

And I would plunge into the bucket called “reality”

I thought of it as a dream

But it was too fleeting and pleasant

There were many that I’ve met who supported me

And welcomed me

And it made me feel special

Then like a brick crashing into fragile glass,

It shatters

Time is too short

Life is even shorter -

Like a thread that can be snapped, snipped, twisted, and buried any second

Any moment

And anytime

But even so, society will still go on

The Earth will continue to rotate and spin

People will continue walking on, sipping their coffee

As if nothing ever happened

As if that time never existed at all

But then there’s small remnants of those times

And when you find those things and remember to reminisce

It’s as if nothing changed at all

So, it can’t be that bad

Can it?

But then you hear those sounds again

That small tink! on the glass

And that changes into a crack, then a smash

Then into the sound of falling jagged pieces

And into something that’s broken and will remain broken

Until pieced up together again

By someone,

Anyone

As long as they know, and approach that scene

With genuine intentions

With a piece of sharp glass, you can use it to cut someone

But have you ever thought that was what the glass wanted to be used for?

What if it didn’t want to become the “murder weapon”?

Or to be labeled as dangerous?

Or what if it never wanted to be broken in the first place?

Or that it never wanted to be left alone?

Or that it’s scared that people will never appreciate its beauty because of its sharp edges that’s blown apart?

But it’s fate isn’t exactly up to that glass

Because the future is muddled

And it all depends on…

#poem #poetry