Lonely Fern

This started as a short story I was going to write, and it turned into this poetic piece. 


There is a river along the banks of beauty’s backroads. It never has to feel alone with the intimacy the banks bring it, offering their hands for the gentle strokes of the push-pull flow of the water. The wind nudges the shyness from its grasp, and the river makes friends with the fish, making homes in the darkest sections of the riverbed. A lonely fern stretches its skinny fingers for a chance to taste all that the stream provides, not quite reaching what it longs for. There is a river along the banks of beauty’s backroads. It mesmerizes everything within its view, unaware of the lonely fern among the trees, just out of reach. The stream, devoid of physical flaws, only inciting them in the ones it overlooks. On starry nights, the moon acts as a spotlight, illuminating the ridges in the gentle waves, furthering the tease on the poor, lonely fern, that yearns for the river’s embrace.



When my insides grew tired of living in a body so broken,
I was lucky enough to have loneliness there, holding my
hair back and telling me it was okay to lay my contents
out for security to inspect. That it is okay to show him
what my insecurities are made of. That we are in this
together. I tell him I am alone and he tells me no. That
he is a friend that refuses to leave. I tell him I am sick,
and he tells me no. That if I were sick, that would make
him a virus. I tell him yes. That he is bacteria, spreading
an illness through me with his futile reassurance.

Mr. Lonely

Time is precious, and lonely knows it.
He is a greedy man, stealing moments
that should be spent filling your heart,
not your cup. He locks your mind in a
box, leaving the slideshow of memories
from a time you were not alone. He
leaves your aching heart to mend its
own, knowing your only company is
pain and the numbing substance of
your choosing.