While I feel these particular poems definitely need some heavy editing, if I had tried to start fixing them, I would never be done, so decided to share them as is (otherwise I'd never get this post done!). The first poem is a more personal one, and tells a story of love first found and then lost. The second is based on a piece of fiction (and actually helped me create the last two lines of my novel), and is more about love not necessarily lost, but complete. Enjoy!
She knew before it happened—
there was softness in his voice
and a looming February holiday.
One day felt longer than the months before—
the careful footsteps around each other,
the coy remarks and lasting glances.
He made her the center of attention,
forced to clutch a glass vase to her chest.
Two were received every hour—
vibrant red petals and green stems,
white tags asking of her commitment.
When he appeared with the final two,
her answer was easy to give;
she knew it after getting the first.
Those roses were elegant, everlasting,
but they weren’t real.
Though he labored over every fold
with sincerity and passion,
they would always be fake.
Maybe then she would have seen the end as possible,
instead of believing his emotions
that could not last as long as these symbols.
She would have preferred real ones
to wilt quickly for her; they would have beenmuch easier to throw away.
He asks if I am happy.
Happy! What a strange word.
I couldn’t begin to comprehend
what it means. Which isn’t to say
that I am sad, either. But what
is there to feel when your work is done?
When you have molded yourself for so long
and find that there are no more bits
of clay to stretch, no marks to carve.
Happy? No. What I am is complete.
All my unfinished parts sewn together
and finding their place. And the pain
was entirely necessary, to rip up
all those pieces before they could
be brought together. Now I can say
that I am my own.
But what is left, after something
is complete? What can you do,
but move on to the next thing?
**As an added bonus, I've also realized that while the poems themselves work for the theme, the fact that I'm showing you my poems at all does as well. Because what I've also lost is my love for writing poetry. Back in college I could write a poem a day, but at some point I just wasn't able to. Maybe by sharing and eventually editing my poems, that love and ability will be able to come back.