blue bells

this isn't really a poem

There were bluebells at my exit

and the day was properly gloomy

albeit a bright sunshine yellow semi that blocked most of my view.

I can’t see what’s coming.

Someone adjusted the review,

a glance gives a view of the fabric of the inner top of my car.

its stained by throw up.

have you ever seen someone throw up straight up into the air.

I have.

None of this matters to what I’m trying to say-

I want to tell you about the wall.

I don’t know when I created it

I don’t know how to tear it down

I don’t know that I want to tear it down.

When something bad happens up goes the wall.

My emotions are bricked in

My mind is needed for decision making.

There is no time for tears, my wall makes sure.

I must be present and able to deal with the situation at hand

and anyone else around me who cannot.

The pain comes out in unexpected ways, later

sometimes much later.

Now without a drink the pain that has been behind the wall for years is starting to seep through.

My wall still holds up, sometimes when it really shouldn’t.

I dread to hear the question “awh did you cry.”

No

I didn’t cry

wall says no cry

That doesn’t mean I don’t care

I care deeply

Why is that always the question that decides whether you gave enough of a fuck

I don’t cry, I write poems for you.