I don’t think I’m bad at expressing my feelings, it’s actually doing it that terrifies me and stops me short.
Those Winter Sundays
Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
- Robert Hayden
I am too self-involved to notice
and always too indifferent to care.
Until I glanced above and found a treasure
on the subway’s gentle sways,
where lifeless eyes and muted stares
reflect amongst themselves,
A treasure to treasure a treasure
lost in the musings of my mind.
Hey, I'm here. Writing.