Daily Weekly

On a Thursday she would write poetry if she chose.
It was not specific to Thursdays but you could see her on those days
stooped over a table, lost in the thoughts that formed the poems maybe on a bed scrawling
into the pillows.
Many of those are gone now destroyed or
organised into records and memories
Where you saw her inside
her world of sadness
where sadness was comfort and comfort
was pain.
Her memories are in pieces and feelings yours are
images
physicality full of hate.
Her poetry was her pain
speaking to her reader to herself
through words chosen sometimes
and now
Now it is ok
It is not so ok to be in pain
she recalls from then to now
Her you.

On a Wednesday you have chosen to write some poetry.
A particular choice made on a particular day wet
outside
Dark
Straight onto the computer (times have changed)
Anxiety in.
Sometimes physicality is still
Full of hate.
Poetry an understanding of words
The same.