Poetry

Fast Food

Weight of the world sounds pleasant

when all the griefs to bear

crush the soul and body both.

Can’t be strong, can’t be weak,

can’t be weak enough to admit

that I’m stuck

nor strong enough to admit

that I’m weak.

I guess you are what eats you

when you go about

setting your own table.

Poetry

Don’t Play the Game

I hate for you to see me like this–

not weak, but vulnerable.

You may wonder what the difference is

and to be honest,

maybe there’s not much of one:

I would be just fine

with a kick or ten when I’m down.

I’m weak, you know that.

But for you to see that a stray word

richocheted and grazed

this heart I try to hide on my sleeve,

wounding me,

would break me.

I’m not strong, you know that.

Is it pride? I don’t know.

I’m just sorry you had to see this.

Let me rest my eyes,

lay down my head;

you can throw me out with the trash

come morning.

I’m vulnerable, didn’t you know?