Everything I try to write
Feels written somewhere before
And everything I think to do
Is the beginning of another war
Everything I almost hear
Bears the sound of slamming doors
And all the feelings we hold near
Are a poison making us its shores.
Everything that I should know
I know is something past my years
And everything that I could ask
I don’t believe is worth the tears
So everything that I could say
Rarely will I dare to whisper
And everything I must or may
Only comes out as a whimper.
Writer In Retrospect 
‘Everything I try to write
Feels written somewhere before’ – amazing and so relatable. I’m glad you did write this!
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Thanks. ☺
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Your seeming listlessness is palpable, Rachel. Yours is a frustration of grasping at shadows oozing ever deeper into the mist. From an artistic/poetic viewpoint, you communicate the isolation touchingly.
That said (and you just knew there’d be a rejoinder, didn’t you?), it seems you have much firmer a grip on things than you might imagine. Who else, other that someone fully aware of herself – and yes, with a good sense of life’s complexities – could pen words such as yours?
Truth is, no matter how well we greet circumstances, we never come to terms with everything. Not in this lifetime, at least. That we continue trying to sort things, as you do, speaks well of us. Of you in particular.
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Hah; of course.
Thank you, Keith.
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Rachel, this is so relatable. This poem describes so well the way I felt when I was in high school, and I remember those feelings well. You are such a gifted poet, and I always enjoy reading your work! ❤ Life gets better! Take care.
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Thank you very much! Life seems to do so agonizingly slowly…
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Terrific piece. I appreciated the juxtaposition of traditional a rhyme scheme and contemporary angst.
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Thank you. 🙂
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The first lines are so relatable. Most, if not all, feel the same way.
But then, the piece takes a bit of a turn for me. It goes from prosaic to tangled anguish. I can almost see you being torn in different directions. Or choked as you’re trying to breathe.
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“Torn in different directions.” That makes sense. After all… the name of the poem is “Everything.” And can human beings ever be all-encompassing, and still be dealing with a whole?
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