grief is a room
with no doors
i sit on the bed
and talk to shadows
that do not answer
💧
sometimes it rises
like tide against sand
sometimes it written
like a letter
i cannot read
💧
yet i have learned
to carry it
not as a burden
but as guidance
to places unknown
💧
and slowly
i find my voice
in spaces
grief forgot to claim
About the Creator
Tim Carmichael
I’m a firm believer life is messy, beautiful, and too short, which is why I write poems full of heart and humor. I am an Appalachian poet and cookbook author. My book Beautiful and Brutal Things is on Amazon, Link 👇
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My nose is dripping, and Delia is tracing her fingers through my hair. Her husband is shirtless by the microwave, heating up leftovers from New Year's Eve. In 60 seconds, I'll be shoving mouthfuls of risotto between my quivering lips like a child and picking at semi-stale dinner rolls. Then, I'll pass my plate to one of their three Tabby cats (whom I can never tell apart) and let him/her/them (?) lick it clean.
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Comments (3)
"yet i have learned to carry it not as a burden but as guidance to places unknown" My favorite part! 💙
This was so sad and beautifully written. You captured the emotions so accurately. Loved your poem!
Grief comes in waves; some are gentle, and some knock you ass-over-teakettle into the ocean floor. May those spaces unclaimed by grief grow. 💖