When the Pencil Stops

Sadness, Memory, and Coping

I didn’t plan to write today. I just needed a place to feel.

Some days are cheery when the sun is up.

Other days are cold when the sweater is not out.

Then there are days when gloom comes,

as if a tornado hits and heads to another town.

The mind knows this too shall pass—

nothing stays long enough—

but it also doesn’t want to let go.

It wants to solve the puzzle and dissect the storm.

Where did it come from? Why is it here?

How long will it stay? Will I be okay?

Precise answers.

Not because I want to make life difficult,

but because this is just being human—

learning to find out the world,

to find out myself.

Fighting for what’s right,

to justify that maybe

I am not so wrong.

It seems that no one I know,

or even in history,

has gotten it all right.

And yet,

some have the courage to forgive and forget,

go out for a drink,

laugh and call it a night.

All these distractions to stop man from bleeding—

they’re not that vain after all.

I wish I had a vice.

I wish it were food,

a piano,

or travel.

But all I even remember

is having a pencil a long time ago—

drawing out every song and every pain

until the paper said it’s done.

But now,

I don’t have the urge or the inspiration.

The pencil sits and sits—

untouched, unknown.

My sister gorges when she feels like this;

the other one shops.

My brother watches shows until 4 in the morning.

We’ve all learned to cope.

And maybe, when we open our wounds,

we’ll find out we’re not that different after all.

I know men who smoke,

some who drink,

some who gamble.

All are ways of clinging

to an easier memory,

or just trying to forget.

Am I trying to remember,

or trying to forget?

Somewhere in the middle,

I know

I still belong to me.