Teardrops on Paper

these teardrops
on my paper
leave an indelible stain
traces of salt remain
as proof that
grief was here
my pen releases
the fear
the frustration I feel
it acts as the referee
between my words and
my emotions
I wrestle not to control
the anger rising up inside of me
instead I choose to set it free
to write like a mad woman
ranting and raving about
the senseless loss of life
unleashing and releasing
writing in red
symbolic of blood shed
another young black man
left for dead
and these
teardrops on my paper
leave an indelible stain
and no amount of
‘i know how you feels’ or
‘must’ve been God’s wills’
can erase the pain
retrace the stain
back from whence it came
five minutes before he took
his last breath
it was already too late to cry
too late to try to turn back the
hands of time
he wasn’t even a friend of mine
and yet try as I might
I can't seem to stop this
stream of sorrow
flowing from my pen
written evidence of these
literal tears that imitate
a mother’s cry
teardrops falling freely
onto my paper
leaving an
indelible stain
and only traces of salt remain
as proof that
grief came by here

My co-worker, Charlotte, lost her nephew last night. Ironically, I heard the story on the news about a young woman that drove into a McDonald's parking lot asking for help for a man that had been shot. No one knew the details at the time. News at 11:00, I guess. She lived. He did not. He didn't even make it to 25.