Poetry is truth and sometimes that’s beautiful
But sometimes it bleeds and that means
That it’s hard to read like the way it’s hard
To walk on the scene of a car accident
In the moment of silence after the crash
When the blood is still fresh and absorb
All the pain of what’s lost even though
It’s just your mind leaping, and no—
You don’t know what this means.
But you feel that it’s true, don’t you?
It is. I am telling you.
The screams of the one who lived—
The ones that echo down the years—
That is the sound that life makes—
That is what it means to live.
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