published in Words: Lost & Found

The world hurls knives at you,
And you try to cope,
And you cope
And you cope

And you start to understand why Poe drinks
And Hemingway drinks and
Why Plath killed herself.

But you don’t.

You hope.
You hope that writing is enough

Because you worry that you might become like Poe,
And Hemingway,
And Plath,

Because sometimes the hurt
And the pain,
Can stop a beating heart,
And writing wasn’t enough to restart theirs.

Maybe it won’t be enough to restart yours as well.