You sit in a coffee shop and it closes in 45 minutes.
Nothing feels right, even when your drink burns your
tongue, the feeling doesn’t seem right.
The cars are driving by, life is going on, and nothing can stop.
All of our lives will have to go on, and that’s a good thing.
That’s a wonderful thing.
He may be dead, but my god he’s not gone, never going
to be forgotten.
Still, nothing feels quite right.
My wrists don’t hurt the same way they did yesterday,
my head isn’t aching the same way it did before.
My drink doesn’t feel the same as it did before.
When you lose a person that way, things will always be off.
Picking up my clarinet is going to feel different, wetting my reed
won’t be the same.
Seeing someone holding a tenor is going to make my bone ache
and listening to jazz is going to smother my soul.
I am going to keep drinking my chai because it’s delicious, and I must enjoy.
I am going to keep going on because there is nothing else just that I could do.
I will still keep typing even though my wrists are hurting.
I will not sleep my day away even though my head is aching.
I will keep playing clarinet.
I will keep listening to jazz because, god damn it, it’s beautiful.
Copyright Terrah Short
Could we just find a nice patch of grass,
lay down there?
I know the ground may be moist,
the lingering rain in Washington
will almost always stay longer than
We will have damp marks on
our backs, but I would hope you wouldn’t
mind all that much.
We could talk about clouds or
our classes, get to learn about
Why does the wind need to be
so nippy? I would like to
lie here a little longer, if we could.
The clouds pass by lazily, the sun
will be back soon.
They say there is beauty in our flaws; I see only void in my own.
This void I see eats away at the small amount of raw beauty I have; it distorts what and who I am.
Tearing me apart, fragment by fragment. Like a virus sent to kill the soul.
Why- Oh why does this void snake into my mind?
My mind, it is going corrupt, being split at the seams!
Spare, oh, spare my mind!
The poison void, it spreads like a webby cancer, burying itself deep into the confines of the creative mind.
I will fight through with burning passion; I fight with a strong spirit.
My will, how I assume it so weak!
How glad I am to be proven wrong!
Praise, for I am my cavalry, I save myself.
Stop dancing that dance; take my hand and we can make our own dance, together.
Don’t let the price to pay be you any longer; let it be It who pays the price!
Make It regret ever taking you onto the ball room floor.
Bend; twist; spin!
Let us show It why a dance of our own composutre is more powerful than any of its persuasive ways; Its cunning.
No long will I let you dance in chains; no longer will I watch you suffer.
Now is us; now is us…
With my hand in yours, your hand in min, we can glide with grace and ease across barren ball rooms.
Let our feet cripple before we succumb to It, no, let’s never succumb to it, ever; let it succumb to us.
Watch our feet as we do our dances, as we prove our spirit, our wills.
Stop dancing that dance; take my hand and we can make out own dance, together.
(Dedicated to and inspired by Vanessa)
The sun rise is so ever pale, it pushes up against the dark clouds as they strain to remain night.
Slowly does the pale turn to peach, peach upturning the world to the new light of yet another day
that I remain on this glorious Earth; another day for me to simply…
So let the stars come in the day, let the sun come at night; give courage to the moon, let it rise and never set; grant the sun to be humble, let it not strain to set the moon.
The sun rise, I watch it, reminds me of so much things which I can not, will not, choose not to yearn for…
Not to ever think again why the days pass me by in such a dream land.