I walk these cobbled closes
And pathways paved with memories
That wear down with every step,
Pacing day after day,
Trying to remember and forget
The stories that haunt these streets.
I curse the ground beneath my feet
I curse the will that keeps me walking
Through constant pain.
I struggle to hear myself talking
And curse the rain and its echoes
That sound like mocking applause.
I think back to everyone I’ve lost
And finally accept
I’m not cut out to be a tour guide.
© Emilie C. Black, 2020
I don’t really know why
I do what or do or why
I put myself through this
One hundred day quest
To write poetry.
And even though
Some of it wasn’t my best,
I can say I put
Myself to the test
And passed and
A hundred poems can
Attest to that.
But you see,
This was something
I never thought I could do,
And when I said
“I write poetry”
I felt I had to prove
Something to myself
And to others because
I didn’t get a BA or Honours
In English or Literature
Or something relevant to this.
I worked my way from the bottom,
Primitively stringing as many
Words together as possible and
Aiming for the stars but
Preparing to miss.
But on the way down
I found some catharsis.
And a million different
Ways to play with words.
I found my life’s
Meaning and definition
In a thesaurus and dictionary
And found my voice
Through trial and error.
And now I can say
The things I want to say
The things I need to say
The things I didn’t know how to say
The things I didn’t know I wanted to say
In a way that let’s my
Incoherent and bipolar mind
Sound somewhat like it’s sane.
You and I have both found
Ourselves asking why I
Chose to go down this path.
I’ve asked myself this question
A hundred times in
A hundred ways and
I’ve arrived at
A hundred different answers
That twist and bend and
Find their way back to
This place.
This place where
I’ve not found myself but
I know I’m getting warmer.
This place where
I know I’m going to keep looking.
I know I’m around here somewhere.
I make the same journey every day and every day it’s different.
Memories and thoughts pass like cars on a busy highway,
Never stopping, just always moving
Rushing like they would rather move along
And be safe at home,
Away from the stop and start trouble and
Hustle and bustle of Edinburgh traffic.
Sometimes,
My mind travels far and wide,
Clocking in more miles than this
Little Volkswagen Beetle that
Crawls along at a steady pace
In the rat race of ife.
I think about what could have been what should have been and everything in between.
Like, what if I was related to the queen or
What if I asked out that colleague on a date,
What if they asked me out on a date,
Would either of us say yes,
Would it just be a regret?
Would I rather be invisible or psychic,
Are both powers essentially the same,
Have I just lost the game?”
And other conundrums and questions that
Sometimes have answers or are best left alone,
And blow away with the MacDonalds wrappers on the floor as I open my car door.
Sometimes,
I think about the mistakes that I made and the mistakes that I’m making.
Putting myself in a state of worry for twenty minutes
As I ponder and wonder
“What if my colleagues find out I’m autistic?
Is my autism showing or did I hide it?
Is it obvious that I’m always in a panic?
Can they see I’m not properly medicated?
Are my thoughts racing because of the mania,
Or just because I’m driving faster?
Am I driving faster because of the mania,
Or because my thoughts are racing?
Did I skip that red light?
Is that police car waiting for me?
Is that police car going to my house?”
Then I realise that I’m
Trapped in a carbon and fibreglass coffin,
Strapped in for my own safety,
With only my tears and fears for company.
Until I open the door,
And feel the rain and wind
Wrap around me like a familiar cold comfort.
Watch the rubbish fall out and fall apart,
And then I breathe again and go home
Question from Megan C. from Facebook
Mxcellany - Poetry, Music, Art 