November 2023

Nice Things

A poem about angst, disappointment and toxic relationships.

2 minute read
Red and beige balloons flying up in the sky

We have a trait in our blood,

something special gets passed

around. It’s contagious. Even strangers

who join us get taken by our touch.


And seeing afar, we see perfect

blood, but not our blood. Perfect

touch we can’t seem to copy, we

suffocate instead, accidentally

smother with a nice, soft,

something. Special.


Down here, everything we own,

everything perfectly good gets

blown away; just leaves in the wind

on the brink of decay. Always marred, we mar,

it drops from our hands gets out of our sight

out of sight out of mind;

can’t seem to soothe with our touch we

hold too tight to the point

where it’s too much.

When the day calls for us to look, we look

the other way; laugh over times that aren’t

completely behind us; and everything, our

days, moments; everything, our children, each

other, gets thrown without the safety of wings and

I swear I hear that guy saying:

“This is why we can’t have nice things.”


I can see them destroying while they sleep,

but I’m not strong enough to wake them

from the dream. Even with the hands

of my blinking brethren we can’t

do much more than scream into

space, where sound doesn’t travel.


And you know what, I’m tired too, so I go to sleep

beside them and dream of different things.

Of somewhere far from our homemade noose

where I can hide my everything.

So that one day we can stop sleepwalking

for our little ones.