Bottle up your pain
In an old, glass jar.
Let it sit there for a day
‘Til it’s black as tar.
Fall down on the grass,
Find a feather there.
Take your bottle; feel the sun
Shine down on your hair.
Use the feather, trace
Feelings in the dirt.
It would be a shame to waste the
Art found in your hurt.
If a leaf falls down,
Take to it with ink.
Rinse your newly emptied jar;
Just don’t stain the sink.
Finally, you’ll breathe;
Pressure, it will fade.
This is how the realest sort
Of poetry is made.
Mariella Hunt 