A poem by a white man in his thirties with undiagnosed depression— undiagnosed because he’s afraid of seeing a therapist and discovering that problems are deeper, more destructive than he thinks they are— who works through his feelings and insecurities in his writing; who buries himself in work because it’s the only coping mechanism he knows for quieting the spiral inside his head; who puts the needs of other people ahead of himself, telling himself it’s the polite thing to do, when really he believes he is not worthy of the time, effort, and support everyone else is.
Category: Poetry
You’re Old Now
You realize it when the belt you’ve worn for a decade breaks — the buckle torn through the thin, separated layers. You sigh, lament the trip to Target you’ll have to make to buy a new one before asking yourself why you need one anyway. Because men wear belts? Because your eighth-grade history teacher humiliated one of your classmates who didn’t wear one? Because you always have? Have you just been stuck in a pattern— recessive, repetitive — this whole time? Are you just a shipping container carried by someone else’s freight train?
On a bench by a pond
Something about wet two-by-fours feels like home. Xe sits on a bench, wet from morning dew and mist, on a boardwalk overlooking a pond. Two mallards paddle in front of xem— a slow game of tag or awkward flirting, xe isn’t sure. Soft croaks from red-legged frogs emanate from the kinnikinnik covering the ground. Xe could breathe here.
Frost and Shadow
The frozen dew of February stands in the shadow of towering firs. The sun rises slowly in the southern clouds, and shadows recede. An edge of bright frost curves with the shadow along the shoulder of Kersey Way, not realizing it was time to go.
Daddy Warbucks; Or, Go in My Place
I get that my dad has to do all these stupid ceremonies; he’s the king, la-di-da. But, does that really mean I have to go to the things too? It’s not my kingdom— would it still be a kingdom if I ruled it? A queendom? Anyway, I’m not the ruler; I shouldn’t have to go to this drawn-out, fuddy-duddy event to celebrate the bicentennial of some old tavern with good hash browns. ‘It’s a landmark, blah blah blah, good for the economy, blah blah blah, boosts the morale of the citizenry, blah blah. The optics, Aerith, the OPTICS.’ Can’t you go in my place? You look just like me. You just need to get up on the stage or whatever, give some speech, point at that old dwarven guy, then leave. Ten minutes, tops. Ugh. His council probably expects some gaudy centerpiece for their table to project how important they are. Forgot about that. You can probably find something cheap at the market if you hurry.
This poem is part of a collection called Shards of Kardpaz, which are texts I’ve written for the world of the Dungeons & Dragons campaigns I run with students at my school.
Orthopraxy; Or, A Mother’s Pain
I’ve haunted this temple since the day you were born, the day I died bringing you here. I’ve hid behind alters and candle flames, above rafters, under pews, to watch you grow into a man. I’ve tried to not interfere, let you bloom like wild sage, but sometimes I have failed. I’ve never felt a pain— while living, at least— comparable to seeing you hurt.
This poem is part of a collection called Shards of Kardpaz, which are texts I’ve written for the world of the Dungeons & Dragons campaigns I run with students at my school.
Hierophanic; Or, Elyon’s Struggle
I've heard people say Pelor is here— breathing our air, walking our pews. I’ve spent my life reading His words, preaching His teachings. I’ve never wavered. But, I’ve always wondered why He took my parents away before I ever knew them; why I was chosen for this temple; why, in His wisdom, He chose to take my ability to move my legs.
This poem is part of a collection called Shards of Kardpaz, which are texts I’ve written for the world of the Dungeons & Dragons campaigns I run with students at my school.
Some Visions
In the canvas of the overcast sky, there are blurry molecules or curly hairs floating. Through a stye on the underside of my eyelid, the streetlights look like they’re crying. In the evening after a full day’s work, trapped photons bounce around inside my eyelids. Through dilated pupils after being prescribed readers, the Christmas tree lights look like a wall of frozen explosions.
But before that
Inevitably, the universe will end; electrons will no longer spin around nuclei, and everything will stop. But before that, the Milk Way will be consumed by the blackhole at its core, leaving only void in its wake. But before that, the sun will swallow Earth as it grows into a red giant and explodes. But before that, living on Earth will no longer be sustainable; temperatures and sea levels will rise beyond the point of any coping mechanisms. But before that, you will die; a small tragedy on the scale of things, but a tragedy nonetheless.
trees in maryland
mid april after a cold snap their trunks twisted agony branches desperately reach a merciless blue sky amber leaves on cold earth
M. Espinosa 