Charcoal Notes

I have been sitting here

lonely at the campfire.

I wrote a poem and I

have been reading it

and my eyes are swollen

from weeping.

A tear sprung from

my baby blue eyes

and I am split up inside.

My innards are crawling

and are festering

with pain.

How do I tell you

how I feel.

Love kept leaving,

and I was cringing

with fear of losing myself

along the way.

I looked into the flames

that rippled and smoked.

I felt that I must

throw caution to the wind

and destroy my words.

Sorrow seeped into them

and anger too.

I’ve got to do it.

I don’t want him to see.

He can’t read it.

It holds a secret

so lethal and deadly.

I’ve got to rid myself

of what this poem holds.

Do it now

or else face the wrath.

He might come back

and strangle me if he

found out what I wrote.

I can’t let him see it.

I can’t believe I wrote it.

But the confused daze in me

beckoned me to write it.

So now I hold out

my tired hand

and I tossed the

hurtful poem into the

orange brightness.

And suddenly gray,

then black, charcoal.

Flecks of paper floated

into the fiery depths

and suddenly nothing.

Nothing to bite back

and hurt.

Simply charcoal and dust.

Jennifer Jo Fay

Copyrighted February 2, 2012

A story poem.  I might from time to time write poems of sadness too even though my life is great.  I want to write poems that are going to touch anyone and provoke thoughts.  It might actually help someone heal from something painful.

And actually long ago, when my life was in agony, I wrote stuff in anger and I did indeed throw things away.  Some things are better gone.  I wouldn’t want my children to read some things.  As it is there are going to be some hurtful things they will read someday, but it is my story of my life and a painful time, so they need to know when I am dead.  But not now.