Tag Archives: sadness


this you should know


it’s almost march
& I’m becoming bluer


as restless as a verb
forgotten by the wind
too sacred for
the telling


how little I remember
of months with no corners


the similarities of secondhand
& shadows sewn
into scars


this naked wreckage


my eyes, full of water
full of ink



lah 2.20.17 ©®



there are birds inside the wall

to the rhythm of feathers flapping
like rumors of small hollow bodies
and their desperate chirping need
to be free

I can’t unbutton the drywall
or paint it a bold color of

but I try to explain that I’m
addicted to a certain kind of
and maybe we all hide behind
the same corner

if this were elsewhere
a different canvas, a different life
we could fly together
experience the rain
and become intimate with
the outside storm

as if there never was a wall
after all

lah  6.18.12 ©®


once we were a melody

a slow string of harmonic words
abundant sentences
like flowers in spring

our syllables moved wind
to wheat

mathematically, forgiveness is
a top-heavy relationship

and in the sum of reduction
one becomes whole
while the other, a remainder

I have assumed the shape of water
of air

in a cloud
or a balloon

I must be poetry
I am fluid

the slow blue leak of
sky or sea or hope

I believe it’s a sign
maybe a malignancy
a cancer

heavy is this lifetime that
rains snow
each day colder than the last
but predictable
the way it falls with certainty
and purpose

and I feel compelled
to cut up the whiteness
like cocaine
and fill sinuses with misery
or all the color of pocket-stains

and then
yellow streamed through my window
slanted, sideways

but I am disabled

numb and broken-winged
before the open sun

lah  6.15.12 ©®


night is never
dark enough
to hide the ghost
we know must
be our breath
or the footsteps
of the ghost
we know must
live here carved
out of water
spilling from
our hearts
night is only
the gossip of
hollow bones
the gossip of
ghosts that
become the body
bent in prayer
bent in sin
much farther
than close
waiting for
small deaths
of small moments
night is never
dark enough
to listen to
our own echoes
the thinning
of a voice
like the whisper
that follows a
shadow or the
vowels lost in
a forgotten sky
suspended in ink

lah 2.15.17 ©®


it’s winter & the night smells of smoke
& ache

I’m alone
in a house full of black ink
a thousand miles from here

searching for something that belonged to you
older than an apology
something quiet
like the cadence in caesuras of
february’s shifting snow

as white as an empty page

it’s always winter & I am not this

when I measure the sound of clouds
moving their darkness like yesterday’s words
& when I measure the thickening air
between us by months
by my shadow’s long bones
sleeping in a bed of separation

it’s the same way I assemble assonance
in a small room with small walls
as it calls out metaphors
until it echoes in my ribs, ghosting
my voice

it’s still winter & I remember forgetting

I’m growing older
colder between these sheets
writing you in this poem I pretend to be
& trying to name this grief
lah 2.11.17 ©


I can’t translate
the meaning
of how it feels

there is no noun
for that

in slow months of blues
I am evergreen

a desolate tree, pining
its needles, until they
lodge in the throat
like unspoken

I am sentenced to
the pressure of
holding still

planking flesh to bone

poems pressed into
the softened cartilage of
this heartcage

the hardwood beneath
comforts me
reminds me I can’t
fall any farther

lah 5.19.16 ©®

~because addiction is a bitch

the sun has yet to reach the east. in this thin-skinned room of dark hours comes a gathering of static & hallucinations. too many coronas, too many blunts & a labyrinth of unlabeled, unprescribed brown bottles litter the floor. clockhands crawl the wall, pointing, as if to mock his unsleep. photos tremble, echo the missing voices of a summer, passed away. he buries the unraveling; ink on the page, ink on the skin. night is needling him. night is heavy with fireflies, heavy with owls.

behind the steel bars
appears the lonely June moon
again & again

this could be
the beginning
of a poem

the crumbling
of words
to creosote
& bone ash

a cauterization
of metaphors
before the spread

like tumors
like rumors

wild throats swallow
xanax with pez
wash down whiskey
with jagermeister
& cans of diet cocaine

he will stand at the altar
recite bible passages
to skeletons of
a former self
to angels
with glittered wings

when a lost son rises
whole again, the wind
returns to the sky
lah 5.15.16 ©®

~notes on explaining the ache

the only cure for mourning
is night
I prefer shadows

flowering in my veins
as the noise fades
the silence grows louder
I follow your voice through the mirror

I write you full of my darkness
my skin has worn thin
feel an ache in the breathing
after the lung’s last sigh
I float in the absence
of your gravity

until the space becomes
sshhh…listen to the echo
from the hollow of my throat

calling your name
what is the acceptable time for a heart
to grieve?
x. someday, I will turn to rain
my footprints are words left
behind that no one will read
the pause
& then
the afterwards
the alchemy of us dissolves
like the moon
the only real sound
must come from
the soul

everywhere, a poem

lah 1.23.17 ©®

~slight measurements

my sky stayed blue the summer

after you died, like a lull of lakewater

still, the walnut stood strong

wise and throwing shade

only the wind has moved on

By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.


a peculiar voice still shakes me awake
like a living nightmare
nearly four hundred days from here
a 3am stranger says you were
driving with familiar ghosts
curled above the hot curve
spooning them in your waking sleep
you were flying, uncaged bird
wingspread and flying
dangerously, devilishly high
soaring that thirty seconds of
speeding across the tracks
until you fell again from
an intoxicated sky
as if an attempt to kill
your own demons
a rusted stake to the heart
and I can never write
the aching silence found
in a sunless morning
in a sterile room
the medicinal white stench
of stilled air
and you, hanging on
each startled tone, a reminder
that a cheated death was less than
a millimeter from this day
you were alive
but so far away
comatose, yet crying
I wipe the salt from the cracks
in swollen cheekbones

and like a rock song
you become one with the machines
pumping toxic venom from your
draining black milk from a vacant space
behind broken ribs
where breath no longer inhabits lungs
every inch of skin, a palette of pain
hues of hurt I never knew existed
and through the doorway comes the man
who uncrucified you
to tell me you are lost in the woods
with less than one percent chance
of ever being found
last rites were all that was left

By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.