Monthly Poem: December

Here comes Santa Claus... and 2023.

I have to be transparent about what I'm feeling with this one. I'll start it with Andre 3000's verse on Kanye West's "Life of the Party".

*Chef's Kiss* with the word play and the way he starts with processing grief.

This month's poem does the same from the roller coaster of my mind.

My grief was repeatedly punching me in the mouth this summer and one night it culminated into a first draft of "Friends in High Places."

I begin with laying out three of the five stages then work my way to the final two as I let the emotions run their course. Some nights are an endless spiral and it's okay to feel that.

I hope laying my feelings out like this helps you work through something you've been processing too.

Enjoy!

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December's Poem

Friends in High Places.

Grief is a dream.

I cycle through its five stages with rapid eye movements and deep breaths that sluggishly claw their way out of my chest.

Wondering how split-seconds transform me from an angry boxer with pitchfork knuckles, to an innocent defendant, right hand to the sky thinking “deny, deny, deny”.

I wasn’t caught red-handed those were just the hands I was dealt.

Each change in sleeping position is a bargaining chip

as I try to negotiate for one uninterrupted hour of peace.

I’m tired of feeling like my bed is

a trial and error,

a mat for combat,

a ring of persecution,

a tournament of valor.

Grief is a nightmare.

Like the sleep I’m hounding through silent woods is studying me

from the outskirts of consciousness.

Lurking in the trees.

Remaining concealed

but whispering at me with the sound of a blade kissing honing steel.

Grief is an invisible phone booth in the backyard

trying to persuade me that the call is always coming from inside the house.

Patiently plotting on the right moment to break in.

Grief is a drifter looking for a comfortable home. Adapting to mansions and temples.

Inspecting every square inch and taking note of the slightest wrinkle in the walls.

Cooking breakfast,

sorting the mail,

cleaning the bathroom,

taking out the trash,

making the bed.

Rearranging the kitchen,

the living room,

the closet,

unpacking its articles of depression until I accept it as the landlord.

Grief is the persuasive friend

that is an expert at jumping off the bridge.

Selling me the safety of it,

bundling flash sales of adrenaline,

shoving coupons for 10% off a new life into every pocket of my mind,

uncomfortably holding my hand

with a grip like handcuffs saying,

“Trust me I’ve done this before.

Your heart is supposed to feel that way.

That’s the last thing you catch on your way down.”

I wonder what grief tells its loved ones,

because as I lean over the ledge

and watch my shadow fall away from me,

like the sun dodges the moon at dusk,

all that comes to mind is:

“Can you blame me for wanting to jump too?”