Gentle Hand

Gentle pats on the back don't soothe. 

Your hateful words still move me.

Consume me. 

The sun sets like my respect for you. 

Unilke the sun there is no cycle or hope. 

No tumbling schedule of shinings. 

No routine of one day after the other. 

No Almanac, No turning back. 

So rub my back each scratch is a piece of respect to you. 

Scratch it all off blindly till its bare and pink.

Stop rubbing more will bring pain. 

Which will make me leave and not think of you. 

On my back. 

A weight. A nuisance. 

Talking about me to all of your friends, 

Through clenched teeth and a tender hand. 

Comments

Grant-Grey Porter Hawk Guda

Powerful expression! 

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741