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30 Days of Poetry: Ode to Unbeautiful Things


I've watched a lot of people die.

Sitting in an uncomfortable folding chair next to their bed,

listening to the monitors beep beep until it beeps then beep, and finally just one beep.

Some of them knew I was there.

Mostly, they didn't.

I hope their body remembers.


I lived a childhood as alcoholism and abuse decorated my nights with blood red fury,

and darkened my days with weary depression.

I can stay up longer than anyone I know.

My body never sleeps.

I am dying faster than anyone I know.

Because my body never sleeps.


I cut my bangs too short once.

I learned that things grow back.

I got mad again and cut the rest of my hair off.

Someday it's going to stop growing back.


I rarely feel pretty.

I rarely feel good enough.

I rarely feel worthy.

The people who love me don't know why they do.

That makes two of us.

I know what they don't love though.

It's the only thing I see.


I keep working,

I don't rest.

But somehow it's never enough.

Some of us work just to have the privilege of seeing that we'll never live.


Being alive is the most difficult job I've ever had.

But I can't quit.

It's impossible to get rehired here.


Ode to an unbeautiful life,

where the most beautiful thing about it is

that it keeps going.










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