A Poem I Wrote Without Writing It
I rambled onto chatgpt like it was a journal entry and told it to make that mess of words into a poem.
I feel like what it created needed a space somewhere permanent….because it did a really good job. So here is my rambling session, turned angelically into a poem I could never write.
Poem: “Hunger, Loud”
The world is on fire
and everyone keeps telling me it’s fine
because it’s been on fire so long
we’ve started calling the burn
weather.
The government is a horrible piece of shit—
I mean that with the same softness
I reserve for prayer.
I mean that with the same urgency
I reserve for my children
who are trying to grow
in a garden that keeps losing
its soil.
My son is in therapy.
I should be in therapy.
My other son
my husband
my mother
the neighbors
the referee at hockey practice
the mail carrier
the wolves at the door—
the whole goddamn world
should be sitting in a circle
with their palms open,
learning how to touch each other
without drawing blood.
I feel fat,
and I hate that I feel fat
in a country where people are losing
their SNAP benefits in three days.
I am always full.
I am rarely hungry.
How unfair
that the hunger I know
is the kind that curls inside my chest,
not my stomach.
I walk the dogs,
clean the dishes,
do the laundry,
run distances most people call
“too far,”
and still somehow
I can’t outrun
this dread.
I photograph babies being born
into a world that does not know
how to welcome them.
We sing lullabies
over burning cities
and call it
hope.
I love my kids
but I love the quiet.
Maybe that’s normal.
Maybe that’s something else.
I love hockey training,
the glide of routine—
but I hate the hustle,
the bladed expectations
cutting into every hour.
I wish Jonny had an easier time at school,
not because I want him to be
like them
but because I want the world
to be soft enough
for him as he is.
I wish Jameson didn’t challenge me
every time the universe says “no,”
but maybe that’s the seed
of something righteous,
the kind of fire
that could save us
if we let it.
I wish I knew what I wanted,
but most days
I just want kindness—
someone to say,
“I see you.”
Someone to say,
“It’s okay that you’re always full but still starving
for clarity.”
Someone to say,
“I know it hurts,
and you’re doing the best you can.”
And maybe the truth is—
this life is a long hallway
of slammed doors
and soft openings,
and all of us
are sprinting barefoot
toward something tender
while trying not to bleed.
Maybe the only thing
worth knowing
is this:
We are here,
together,
terrified
and trying.
And the quiet between us—
the tiny moment where we breathe
and don’t break—
is holy.
We could be holy,
still.
Even now.
