Day 43 – Much to Say

I don’t have
much to say

You sortof reach a point
when you’ve said
thousands of things
and slowly they morph into
thousands of thoughts
that you watch glide by
like fish in the doctor’s office.

It’s not to say nothing matters;
but saying things just to get ears,
just to feel important,
just to build a following,
just to get your angst out-
that doesn’t matter.

Maybe you’ll sell a few coffee mugs.
Maybe even a book.

You could stand in front of a microphone
and feel
that you’ve earned it,
you could grab all eyes,
they could say your words
were the best words,
the greatest words they ever
shared on Instagram


on their own
have never

a single thing.

As someone who’s said
thousands of things,
I haven’t done
a whole lot.

So anymore,
I haven’t got
much to say.


Day 10 – Matt’s Favorite Things

**Today’s poem was written with the assistance of my incredibly mature boyfriend, Matt**

In the



Year 2: Day 132 – Making Lemonade

It’s not like making lemonade,
you just pulverize the crap out of some lemons
and you get something at least passable.

It’s gotta be more like making beer,
have you ever seen those guys?
They get riled up about hops and whatever,
I don’t know,
but it’s apparently
a delicate process.

Even if it’s just some Natty Light,
it still took some doing.

So I think everything is like that-
you can try real hard and still make something
not good.
Nothing is like making lemonade-
you can’t throw stuff together
and somehow it turns out.

But you can be lazy with lemonade
and it doesn’t matter.
I’m not sure what that means.

52 Flashes of Fiction: Week 9 – I Kept Some Things

I got rid of a lot of things, but I kept some. I don’t know why, and I don’t know what the criteria was for deciding what to keep. I don’t know that I even knew I was keeping stuff, maybe I just forgot that it had anything to do with the whole mess. But things take on meaning when you keep them; ask a hoarder. Nobody keeps something because they need it. We don’t actually need much really. But we keep something because it will mean something later, because we kept it.

I don’t know why I have photos. I can remember perfectly well what it felt like and most of what it looked like without the disappointing details, and I don’t even want to remember. George had a green shirt on, Anna had a cold sore, that was the day the rain came down hard, that was the day my heart stopped. I don’t need pictures to remember that.

I don’t know why I have birthday cards, they all say the same things. Everybody hopes it’s a great one, some of them had money inside but I don’t know which ones. Things stack up because we don’t want to feel the meaninglessness of throwing something away. When you throw something away it’s worthless, even if it’s not. I’ll never see any of my old coworkers again but I didn’t throw away the birthday card they gave me because they’re not worthless. Just gone.

But you know, if someone came in and cleaned out under my bed I wouldn’t know what had been taken. If I died I wouldn’t know what I’d be leaving. And whoever came upon that stuff after me would know about as much as I do about why I got rid of some things and left the rest. And they could throw it all away and it wouldn’t matter.