violet-wade
Australian
Once upon a sunny day, Violet was strolling hand in hand through a meadow, with her friends Kevin the bald ostrich, and Cleetus, the purple monkey when she came upon a particularly glorious phenomena, a sunset. Realising she could never create anything to match the splendour of the watercolored sky, she decided to give up her life as a hallucinatory painter and instead take up residence in the black and white world of paper and ink. And so, Violet became a poet. / To this day she still thinks longingly of that sunset and of the honey cakes she shared with Kevin and Cleetus in that dear old meadow.
It wasnt that i didnt love you
It wasnt that
It wasnt that i didnt want you
It wasnt that
It was...
It was only that my heart
Stopped beating in time with yours
That every touch
Was painful jarring
That i pulled one way,
And you another
That every kiss
Tasted like goodbye
And I knew that
I needed to leave
Because you would never send me away
It wasnt that i didnt love you
It wasnt that
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 10:48 PM UTC
I don't need poetry
Well,
That may not be true.
But poetry certainly does not need me.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 10:40 PM UTC
I wish that your smell didn't still
Linger around me like a phantom
I wish that your kiss wasn't still imprinted on my cheek
Or tickling my neck like a softly woven scarf
I wish I didn't still feel your awkwardness
Clinging to me when I see friends,
That I didn't run home to the absence of your embrace every time I get scared, which is a lot since you left
Your socks sneak into my drawers
And snuggle into mine,
Folding into little laundered intimacies
It's been over year
Can you believe that?
I want to run into your arms and tell you that but I haven't touched you in longer than I care to remember.
God I miss you
I miss having a home
In your smile,
Taking comfort in the warmth of your body under my sheets.
I taste you every morning in my coffee
In my warm pumpkin salad lunches,
At dinner with wine
At all hours on my lips.
You don't know it, but you are with me as I steal expensive groceries,
You feel the thrill as I escape the checkout again.
You stole my heart, it's a clumsy metaphor but you did it,
On that first date you nicked a cheap telescope and through its blur we watched the world lose its focus,
Everything but us
Lost focus
And I still can't see it,
I can't see the world around me
Anymore
And now the memories of you are blurred too,
Either by time or by the tears
I can't tell.
When I was upset you would refuse to leave me alone,
As if you were afraid I'd drown in my own tears if you weren't there to hold me up
Now I am alone and I don't even know
Whether or not I did drown
Or if I will soon
You aren't holding me up anymore,
Instead you are pulling at me desperately, painfully,
Possessively
Heartbreak is jealous of every moment not consumed with it
I am still caught in the web of our codependence, spun and dried out,
No longer burning with poison
But consumed instead with empty death
Have you ever seen the shell of an insect left behind by a spider?
I have
You already know that I felt a strange solidarity with it.
Please call me back,
Even if its just to say goodbye.
I need new words to echo round my empty shell,
Words that aren't "I'd be nothing without you"
"I need you"
"I will always love you"
Please, just give me the sound of your voice saying "its over"
Or "you are beautiful,
The world is gloriously open and new when you are alone"
And you would open your arms and uncurl your fingers,
Not to embrace me,
But to finally let me go.
I am ready-please set me free.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 10:39 PM UTC
She said it was too heavy
the burden of life.
She said it was too heavy
And she cast it off
And now it's too heavy to hold
Her absence
A great aching chasm
She soars
Stingray spirit
I hope it doesn't hurt
Any more.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 10:35 PM UTC
Don't say he ruined me.
He didn't
He took something without invitation
He stole
He sullied himself
I will not speak his name
I will not give him power
I will not have you define me
By his actions
I am not lessened
Or depraved
By his trespass
I am simply angry
At his presumption
That by taking from me
He would have me
I am not a possession
I am not to be owned
I am still my own agent
And his name shall not be spoken with mine
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 10:28 PM UTC
the night bows
to the darkening moon
crickets sing
in rhythmic prayer
the air seems to hum
and float thicker about us
in awe of luna’s pull
the brightness of night
succumbs eerily,
quietly
but with a deep
and resounding
thumping
that beats from our own hearts
as the moon is swallowed
in rusty shadows
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 10:20 PM UTC
We are so busy hiding our scars
That we do not realise they make us who we are
I am not a motorbike accident
Or a continuous bumping into cabinets
But I AM what survived
These imperfections are testament
That I am still alive
I could ramble and rhyme
Keeping time
With an inane Bush poetry beat
But the truth is more profound
than predictable rhythms
Wearing these scars is more proof
Than I will ever need
That I have truly fought to be free
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC
My bones are shattered porcelains
And Dr Frankenstein is recreating
My body from the toes up
I have more screws than tarsals
More plates than fibulas
More scars than cracked paint on derelict homes
Greens, yellows, blues, blacks and purple
Dye my leg in splendid hues
Plaster decorates my toes and pokes under my knees
Pins and needles tingle constantly
But these are made of steel as well as
Peripheral neuropathy
My hospital discharge form
Reads like poetry
Displaced tibea
Goes on adventure and brings back
Swollen instead of souvenirs
And crushed ligaments as testament
To broken steps they have fallen on
Perhaps it is not as profound as sunsets or romance
But I am finding beauty in pain
Intricacies in injury
And the limits of my creativity
To distract from nightmares
Of how this happened
And to drown out the hungry goblins
Deep in my guts demanding opiates
Like drunken teenagers
They loot my stash and trash my viscera
Legal or not I'm still a ******
Writing poetry rather than sleeping-
Confronting demons with stanzas.
Over screams I am armed with the arsenals
Of metaphor, personification and symbolism
Whatever the pain, my posse of poetry and prose
Has always got my back
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:27 AM UTC