Before the Storm
Not a calm but a
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Not a calm but a
Grief sucks. Yes, it's terrible. It's heart-wrenching. When you lose a loved one, it doesn’t seem real. Everything seems like a fantasy. Everything seems like a nightmare. Yet, it's not a nightmare. It's not a vision. It's not made up in our heads. It's real. Grief is a hole in your heart and it only gets bigger the more loved ones you lose.
My mother used to tell me that I lived my life in closed energy.
Am I every poet?
For you, I would have given my whole life.
The graveyard was nothing remarkable. Birds flew above, singing the songs of early morning as they started their journey across the skies. Tombstones scattered themselves across the fields, decorated with bouquets of many shapes and sizes. The grass had gone for the winter and was replaced with a thin layer of snow that blanketed the ground in an icy chill. And sitting there, still as the air around him, was a rider atop a modest white carriage. His passenger stood opposite him, shivering in the cold. He held out his hand to her, offering a ride. She accepted and climbed aboard the carriage. The rider offered her a blanket to stay warm and she took it, wrapping herself in its warmth. And no sooner than the rider had appeared, he left.
I dwell in the past so often.
The swing set in the clearing had rusted with time, ivy climbing up the poles and growing over the seats. The trees made a large ring around the area, their leaves bright red and yellow in the early fall weather and just beginning to shed. Dew had settled on the dandelions and grass, and they glistened in the early morning sun. A crisp breeze flew over Nyx’s wings as she stood in the middle of the clearing. She shivered, bringing her arms around herself.
She tells me,
It was the night before November, and Lila was getting ready for a Halloween costume party. As she braided a section of her hair on either side of her face, she looked over the makeup she had done.
A room may look emptier without its furniture,
Two mirrors face each other
For the love of R&B,
Clocks are strange, they don’t have agendas but move promptly.
I stare at the blank canvas in front of me with a glimmer of desperation in my eyes. It’s happening again. My body is frozen, trying to pull inspiration from thin air. My eyes scan the empty room. The paintbrush in my right hand feels like a dumbbell begging to be put down. It’s been half an hour at this point and still nothing.
POV: It’s 2014. You’re getting dressed for school and reach for black tights, your new skater skirt from Kohl’s and a pair of black combat boots. You scroll through Tumblr while you wait for your parents to drive you. "Chocolate" by The 1975 is playing on your iPod. Life is good.
Fake parking tickets, sidewalk pavement, public buses. These are just a few places Ed Madden has inserted poetry as Columbia’s poet laureate. He has two main goals: to make poetry a public art and to promote the voices of local writers.
i started chewing my gum too soon
I skipped the last day of high school to go to your funeral.