It sometimes feels like
the more personal and painful
the words that bubble
to the surface are,
the deeper they must be planted,
and the less I understand why
they needed to be planted
in the first place.
Some days, it's all I can do
to dig them up from their
shallow,
unmarked, clandestine graves
in my histrionic woods,
giving them fitting burial
and a respectful resting place
in the crazy garden on therapy
hill.
© 2015 Todd Jenkins
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