By Noah Vale
The first time I was here was in my head
I’d say maybe three months ago.
Today I lay on my bed
And there was a man outside screaming morbidly at the torment of the demons I too dread
Struggling with loss and drunk thoughts wrapped around those long dead.
“You killed my father, there’s a wind coming,” are some of the words he said
I prayed I’d vomit that night hoping to at least feel something less bad.
You know he stayed up for hours
From midnight till three he didn’t stop yelling and cursing
And I didn’t dare sleep that night.
I hate I had to see it, to feel it
If I wasn’t careful that would be me in a few years, best believe it.
He docked at around four, I did too a little while later
I understood in him what it feels like to have your mind locked away and no one leave you keys.
I pray he finds peace,
I hadn’t slept in three days myself
The usually cold night after another begging God for peace.
Noah Vale is a poet from Serowe, Botswana that writes poetry as an act of reflection and release, turning emotion into language and silence into story. Their work carries echoes of longing, hope, and the search for meaning in ordinary life.
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