The Control We Don’t Have (a poem)
I hear myself say it.“Oh, how I wish he’d let goof the control he doesn’t have.”And my heart is pricked.Because I know,that’s a word for
I hear myself say it.“Oh, how I wish he’d let goof the control he doesn’t have.”And my heart is pricked.Because I know,that’s a word for
The crabgrass creeps in,weeds reach high toward sun rays,across the full length of what’s meant to be a flower bed.They seek to overshadow every bloom
And ever since that daywhen I sat in your cold office hands on my lap,ears hearing wounding words,heart taking heavy blows, I’m scared to tell someone
a poem for my sweet husband on our ninth wedding anniversary. Do you rememberhow in the beginningI took offense to your jokethat I should sew?“Not
A single teardripson the bedas I stare at the white wall we painted when I felt hopeful. Depression is a funny thing;you don’t always see it
I’ve always been intimidated by poetry. Reading it sometimes makes me feel dumb and writing it? Goodness, I’m not sure I have any skill to