I recently looked in my journal and saw 7 months of empty space. 7 whole months, during which the pain in my head was so great, to acknowledge it with ink would be the kiss of death. To write it down would be far too permanent, almost as though admitting pain is what gives it power.
I now know the opposite to be true. That the ink that seemed so permanent, in fact acts like a magnet, pulling the pain out and wrestling it onto the paper with all the strength of a fine point tip. The paper-pen-hand-arm-brain succession of atoms fully ready to serve you.
To them, nothing is permanent. To the pen, the ink that flows through it is as fleeting at the muscle stimulation the brain sends through the arm and hand to move. The paper, grateful for the touch of a tip before once again being left bare. All of these things are grateful and meant to show you that good can come of something so full of pain.
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 9:47 PM UTC
"Use your words" you tell me, in an age where words are like cockroaches, invincible against time and indestructible once uttered.
What if I told you, when I look at your face I don't see words. The letters and syllables that love to flow out of me and fill every empty silence suddenly don't fit right in the space between us. You and words are like oil and water, not meant to share the same bowl and only used by those too impatient to wait to let their *** boil.
That's the thing with words and oil, once spilled you never really seem to clean every trace left behind. A greasy film coats the surface no matter how much water intends to purify it.
But I can wait.
I know there is no rushing the tide while you wait on the shore the same way painting you with oily words won't hasten our journey. The heat of silence fits you so comfortably that I can't help but reach towards the fire when you say to me,
"use your words."
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
I do not see what you see. For if I did, maybe then, I could love myself the way you love me.
*Love my legs for the strength and beauty, rather than for the way you whistle at them.
Love my smile and face just because, rather than for the way it brings light to yours.
Love my heart and soul, for more than the way they try so hard to please you.*
To feel comfortable in my own skin and body, only seems possible when you are there to agree. I never learned to love myself before you, and now I fear,
*What happens when you no longer whistle your affection for my legs?
What happens when my smile no longer brings light to your face?
What purpose will my heart and soul have, when you no longer wish to be in their company?*
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 10:12 PM UTC
Late at night when I need to calm my soul,
You are what my mind drifts to.
But, I worry that like a song played too many times on the radio,
you too, will lose your magic
and once again I will be left defenseless against my own thoughts.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 4:43 PM UTC
Did God send you?
That smile of yours just shines of hope,
not a specific hope.
Not hope for love or lust of some sort of romance,
but,
when I have used up the last of my reserve,
inexplicably you are what keeps me here.
You, your color and strength.
You're a giant! Do you know this?
Bright gold, stronger than the sun. God, I wish you could see your color.
It must be hope.
you must be hope.
God must have sent you.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
There's a cause for every change in state,
but I don't how a change came about in me.
Someone who once loved hugs and warmth
who now feels fear with every physical interaction,
this isn't me? is it?
no, what's changed
think
think
was it one thing?
was it everything?
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
I thought I could watch
as you laughed and looked into her eyes
I thought I could stay
because sometimes it was my eyes you were looking into
I thought I could bear
the pain of not knowing how you felt
But I've recently decided
I can't.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
I often wonder if
that sparkle in your eye
is actually there, or merely
a figment of my rose-colored
imagination
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
and here i am again
at the intersection
of pedestrian language
& old wives tales
swallowing gum
like 7 year memories
opening umbrellas inside
cause i can't seem get away
from all of this rain
i ********** with my left hand
cause i was told
back in highschool that
"it feels like someone else is doing it"
it gets me wondering
about the difference between
losing you and finding out
that some one else found you
or my sleep
or lack thereof
its starting to tear me apart
i keep having this dream
where you are in
an unfamiliar body of water
trying to wash my poetry
off of your hands
or the one where
something happens in my chest
every time you sit
on someone else's bed
i'm tired of feeling like something you've misplaced
but don't have the heart
to look for anymore
tired of you saying my name
like you're trying to bury it
i'm tired of wondering
if you can tell the difference
between the absence
of my voice & silence
the other day
i almost started sobbing
at work when a woman
asked me about
our equipment
i was explaining how
things come apart
and almost mentioned your name
it made me think
of how you used to say
things like "what would you do
if i showed up on your doorstep
one day?" now, i haunt
the windows in my house
i don't leave for weeks at a time
i sit on the porch like the dog
you didn't shoot behind the shed
the one that refuses to die
until you come home again
i told somebody once, that
you didn't even know
what my voicemail sounded like
i wonder if they thought
it was because you
are so important that i never
let it ring that many times
before picking up
or if you dont know
what it sounds like
because you've never called
you can't be the ****** weapon
and the search party
i'm tired of all the seats
to the ferris wheel in my chest
being empty
tired of your voice
being the one i look for
in abandoned places
that one sound i beg
to bounce back
down vacant hallways
i just seem to stand there
in all of that quiet
like someone looking for a mistake
on an eviction notice
so i guess the hardest part
isn't letting go
it's forgetting
you ever had a grip
in the first place
and since you've been gone
i wonder if when
you pushed yourself away from me
you used your left hand
so it felt like someone else did it
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC