my poetry was born from father’s death
his existence felt like a memory from a dream
was he ever there? maybe ages ago
about grieving? I knew not a thing
but I wrote anyway

he was looking out a window, stationed on an angle
and still, I cannot figure out if I had imagined this
only the seizures were as real as my uselessness
it was all just fragmented lines, juvenile vocabulary
but I wrote anyway

perhaps it was my attempt at communicating
with whatever emotions that were
screwing around inside my head,
poetry and I sat patiently listening to guilt
as it rambled on about how pathetic I was
for writing, that it was a vain act of self-pity
it had a point and was probably true
but I wrote anyway

I thought maybe sadness
would eventually become my friend
so I wrote anyway