The Horror of Death for the Living

It’s much easier to write about
The triter things in life
Like turbulent sex poems
And my druggie boyfriend….
When I try
To write about
That little blue child
I held for 30 minutes in my arms
Before they stashed him away into
A cold dark room, where he was more
Alone somehow and colder
Somehow
And you kept the beanie on his head
Because you were afraid he would
Be chilled….
This remembrance;
50 daggers to my heart
I can’t let myself
Think about it.  
Or when I try to write
About the chaotic solitude
And confusion
At my brother’s funeral
Everyone strolling the graveyard
Like the walking dead
With shattered shards of glass
Piercing holes into their brains
Because he’s dead now
And we don’t know who we are anymore
Our world split in two
And the graves sit idly
In the frozen, hard earth
Oblivious and obstinate to our
Suffering.
I write  
To refrain from feeling
These heavy lacerations  
And the holes in my soul
Where I am no longer whole  
That ventilate the
Horror of living.