So I write bad poetry when I’m emotional. Think it’s when my picture to words translation matrix breaks down a bit, and I find free-form and short statements the only way to put my thoughts into words.
I have spent tonight revisiting my past.
Unpacking tissue-paper wrapped memories;
viewing them through this strange new lens.
The jigsaw starts to come together.
Not complete yet. Not even close.
But for the first time I can start to see the pattern,
and think maybe I can complete this puzzle.
There are still some pieces missing
and I will need some time to accept
and to mourn, and to grieve.
For the child I was, crying in the night,
when no-one came.
For my life now, forced to accept the help
that I do not want and refuse to need.
For the future I planned, and now will never have.
So, only partly whole, I put the pieces back.
I wrap them up carefully
and leave them there until I am strong.