my mother likes to think i can’t see
her dabbing her eyes dry,
that long, lost love is not something that is pieced
together into the equivalents of promises
yours have been broken
mine just beginning to birth
we are lying motionless
in this game
whose pieces are pawns of fate
and cruel intentions
for the strength it took to leave
is as brittle as the ground i forged for abandonment
and my poetry is as stale
as warm beer you drink just to forget
THE FEAR OF NORMALITY
THE FEAR OF APATHY
THE FEAR OF ORDINARY
THE FEAR OF BORING
THE FEAR OF REPLACEABLE
THE FEAR OF SAMENESS
THE FEAR OF CLICHE
THE FEAR OF BANALITY
THE FEAR OF COMMON
THE FEAR OF DULL
THE FEAR OF SHALLOWNESS
THE FEAR OF TRITENESS
THE FEAR OF VAPID
THE FEAR OF UNORIGINAL
THE FEAR OF INSIPID
THE FEAR OF PRETENTIOUS
THE FEAR IN UNINSPIRING
THE FEAR OF TRIVIAL
THE FEAR OF AVERAGE
Give me something. Anything to quiet this feeling; this hollowness. Is this what happiness feels like? Is this what it’s like to be content?
I’m empty. I am a vast shell of a vessel that’s filled with such potential, such hope; but I waste it.
I’m wasted on the thought of you. The thought of you with someone else. The thought of being alone.
I don’t want to be alone.
It hurts. It shouldn’t hurt.
I am empty.
I don’t know how to feel but I do when you’re near and I wish that it would stop.
I want to be happy always.
I don’t want to be dependent on you for the sun to shine. I don’t want to feel as though you hung the moon. You didn’t. I did.
Wasted youth. Wasted love. Wasted space.
If this is what it is to be content; to be happy…
It’s a numb feeling.
Everything is perfect and yet…
I love with a burning passion, so much so that you get torn up and scorched in the process.
It is not a slow burn it is all consuming.
It consumes me.
I’m consumed with a lonliness when you’re gone and when you’re here I yearn to feed it.
I need to feel you, I need to be near you. I need to know you’re not leaving. I need to prove to myself that this is real and that you are here and that you love me.
If I don’t I burn, my fire stays in me and it burns, it burns, it burns.
I’ve scalded you; it’s too hot, you can’t breathe I’m smothering you and I can’t stop.
You push me away and the flames grow larger.
But when you go, the fire slowly dies out.
I’m not passionate.
I’m not a writer.
Standing in a corner
Back turn towards the light.
Focused on the rhythmic judder.
Not of the heart, or of the soul.
For what I am is soulless.
Hands held close to my body
My breath beats back onto my face
I'm shut in so close
To the total recess of what
My life has been reduced to.
Eyes slowly open and close
While my head dips down again.
Rises up, I stare off, and down again.
Habitually poised in shame.
Always in the end left with some sardonic understanding.
Unsure if soaking in mahogany, sangria and lipstick
makes up for all the words I want to make you feel...
Square, chords, void, silence.