“You make me want to sing” by Trevor Witt
You make me want to sing,
Though my tongue is tied in knots.
You make me want to shout,
There’s something, in your eyes,
A sweetness, in your serious concern,
A calming, like ocean waves on a summer day
In your voice, as you encourage me,
You carry me, with your words,
And I float even when my heart is heavy.
“He doesn’t think I can do it” by Trevor Witt
Hold down the fort,
Hold down my liquor,
He doesn’t think I can do it.
He says it’s not my forte.
Negotiate the contract,
Negotiate the peace,
He doesn’t think I can do it.
He says I’m too weak.
Run my own business,
Run a marathon,
He doesn’t think I can do it.
But I know that he’s wrong.
I know I am capable,
I know I can work harder than him,
I know I can do it, I know I can do it,
So I pay no attention to Jealous Jim.
“Fuck It! Just write!” by Trevor Witt
Fuck it!
Just write!
Throw horse shit at the wall!
And see what sticks!
Keep going until your pen’s ink
Turns to smudged blood,
From your hands and feelings,
Oozing onto the page, like the flow
From an open wound, to form a scab,
To cover, to protect, to seal off
The hurt, to prevent infection,
To prevent the spread of
Trauma, anger, frustration, hatred,
Shame, guilt, fear, and regret,
Deadly pressures, poisons,
When concentrated in the mind,
As opposed to expressed,
Pressed out, let go, released,
And, finally, forgotten.
I do not memorize my poetry.
I write to forget,
To forget the madness,
The madness present
When I relive trauma.
I don’t want to relive it,
I want to be relieved,
I want relief,
A renewed lease on life.
If the right words are not coming,
If it’s hard to choose what to say,
Say nothing,
Say, “Fuck it.”
And,
Just write!
“Hearing them yell and cry” by Trevor Witt
Fear is scary,
And anger is hard,
Especially when people yell,
In the house and in the yard.
I’m surprised the cops were never called,
I remember hearing them yell and cry,
And I tried to sleep, to pretend it all away,
But I bawled and bawled and bawled.
I don’t remember the specific dollar amount,
But they didn’t have enough in their accounts
To keep me and my brother at our school,
But hearing them fight made me want to drown in a pool.
I remember choking myself with my blanket,
And lying under covers, hoping I would pass out,
From lack of oxygen or CO2 buildup,
I didn’t want to be a burden or fuck-up.
I don’t know if I wanted to die or just to disappear,
But that has stuck with me from seven or eight, until my thirty-sixth year.
“Dad is not always mad” by Trevor Witt
Dad is not always mad.
Dad can be sad.
Dad can be bummed.
And Dad can be glad.
He has matured over the years.
He has learned to face his tears.
Dad has a wide-eyed smile,
A grin from cheek to cheek,
When he’s happy,
No gloom can sneak!
But when you see his eyebrows furrow,
He might be confused in his emotional world,
And if his lips get tight and those brows form a “V”,
Then, an angry scowl might be what you see.
But dad can also ponder in concentration,
And he can ruminate on frustrations.
He can be goofy and make funny faces,
And he can take his mind to deep, dark places.
He can express wonder at beauty
And embarrassment after a blunder.
Dad can be excited watching the football game,
And he can feel let down by his team’s losing shame.
Dad is a complicated man;
He can feel many different things.
I am his number one fan,
No matter what emotion he brings.
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