Poem: Sob Stories

Sometimes, I feel my soul forgets its immortality

and I try pouring concrete into my chest to make myself whole again.

I’m afraid my veins will abandon me, that I’ll stop seeking the stars,

that I might stop wondering how many licks it will take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop.


My bells must forgive their clappers,

and my trees allow mushrooms to feed on their decay.

Sometimes, I stick out like King Kong clinging to the Empire.

I burn like an angel on fire.


I could snowball similes until they’re sluiced with slush

Or I could mix metaphors mighty as meteorites missing the Earth by a minute margin

I could sandcastle stanzas and repeat a relentless rhyme

But poetry perpetuates only half of the heliocentric equation

Like we’re missing the bigger picture.


My life ain’t just a house to tear down

Give me the hatchet, I’ll cut off all the things holding me down

I’ll strip my walls and paint murals on them with my fingers.

I’ll try wearing my heart around my neck, so I don’t forget it’s there

or that my veins know me better than a lover’s touch.


I don’t tell sob stories, just stories. Sometimes, I can’t tell the difference.


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