I lost my poem the other day

But I didn't really lose my poem

I lost my hands

And together they folded in a sparrow position

Pushing

Trying to fly to my location

Wishing for me to understand

That losing isn't forgetting

 

I lost my poem the other day

But I didn't lose my poem

I lost my fingers

My fingers looped and tried to lock

But instead they spelled out

Find me

But my mind was already getting ready

To pull on new gloves

Feel the fake leather

Allow them to touch new things

Blue things

Yellow Things

Tasty Things

Someone else's things

 

I lost my poem

I lost my poem two days ago

With that I lost my finger tips

The height of my hunger

The hunger of my mental concentration

As they lay on top of a mismanaged surface

They stopped thinking

I tried to pick up

New pen

More pencils

Less erasers

Messy markers

Illegible crayons

Yet nothing semed to linger and prey to my grip

They only washed away with the current of my memory

Memories that seem to rush so quickly

And disappear as soon as they came

 

I lost my poem a week ago

But I didn't 

I lost my fingernails

And with that my tumbling tops

Cried with eviction

On everything else I wrote

And it was illegible to me

Just me

Everyone else thought it was a start 

To something new

 

But you don't see

That I can't start

Because a part of me

Is lost

So instead I forget

And when I forget

The things I forgot

Poison my brain and stain my blood

I can sense the blackened membrane of my veins

I can

For in these dark corners

These tools

With which I write

Become vulnerable

And wreckless

They become invisible

Until I let go

Until I find them

And set them

Free.