4. I Don’t Know What This Is
I pen letters through
a migraine aura. Embrace
insomnia in a half-hug.
The wind keeps me awake,
winter crying as it leaves.
The body believes
that it’s raining outside.
It tells me
that it’s not a killer, but
every bone lies.
I have an eyelash
of a nightmare in my eye
& I want to dream of a
Quiet City,
but the bed of nails
is unkind.
POV change: you’re 20 years old
at a Thursday basement show
in New Brunswick, New Jersey
This is no longer a poem.
This is an unsent owl call.
All the wise ones are dead.
The ones
who weren’t afraid to bleed.
It’s true, that the night
never ends. But we’re
so spoiled. All of our
best moments are a push
of a button away.
Nostalgia sometimes
feels like a disease.
And the sudden onslaught
of distant imagery
can feel like a boot kick
to the head.
Photo by Jackson Patino
Thistle Thoughts 
Love the shifts in this poem. To me, it feels like it bridges poetry and a play.
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Thank you, Beth ❤️
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Nostalgia sometimes
feels like a disease.
Yes!
Nicely done!
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That idea has been on my mind for awhile. Thank you 🙂💓
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What are powerful burst of creativity Jennifer! Loved every line of it!
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Thanks!
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My pleasure Jennifer!
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oh my what a way to push through and relatable to so many. Feel better!~ ❣️
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Thank you, Cindy
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indeed!
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Good poem, Jennifer! I liked the scene shift and the punchy lines. And Jackson’s photograph is so cool!
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Thank you, Conny. I will pass that on to him as well. 🙂
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