Wrestling with this hourglass
Trying to bring back
All the times that we fought
And all the times I lost
There's a lifetime of moments
We still had to share
But the dust of your bones
Settled before the dust
In your veins had a chance
These days I've lost all sense
Of what's worth it
I haven't listened to music
In a month.
I've never known a darkness like hers.
You went in a hail storm
And I don't know if that's poetic
Or just the crescendo of what
Your life led up to.
You always were chaos incarnate.
A gun with a hairline trigger.
The only blank left in the barrel
Is the one taking space in my head
Since you left.
I never knew how many facets
There were to grief.
I don't think they make numbers that
There's a pinprick of nothingness
In the world
And most people pass it by-
But some eyes, they haven't
Let it out of their sight.
I have grey hairs you'll never see.
She told me it was nothingness.
The anger on my tongue died later
But so help me,
Give me one more day to relive it
And maybe I won't feel so empty.
Just one more.
My younger sister passed away from a ******/fentanyl overdose some months back. This is a collection of thoughts that also I threw lines in from an old poem also about her.
I'm not over it.
These words are fingerprints;
A momento of the fleeting seconds
Where I overflow with emotion
Like a glass under a faucet.
True, these portraits are usually
A collection of broken mirrors,
But let me write when I am howling
At the moon in my car
As the man on the radio makes love
To his microphone
And the glow of streetlights light
The path home.
Let me write when the floors are clean,
Lemon cleaner and sunlight pouring in,
And I'm trimming the ends of flower stalks
For a vase that paints these walls of mine "home".
I am not entirely fragmented.
My ankles may weaken
And my spine my stiffen
And static might overwrite my thoughts
When the sun retires,
But against everything, I stand.
A moment of clarity.
It's a dance I've forgotten the steps to
An equation, a misplaced formula
A melody with lost lyrics
Forgiving myself is as easy
As putting my hand on a hot skillet
Loving myself might as well be
Bitter are the memories
That marr my skin
In unwanted scars
And paint my prose
In purple flowers
Give me an IV
Of rain-soaked November nights
Or dry heat against my skin
And fresh earth between my toes
Or the feeling of a hand
On my shoulder
Maybe I need to talk to someone.
Always staring at this white ceiling
I can't paint
Aspirin doesn't take away the ache in my soul
That spreads to my mind
That spreads to my words
That stain my fingertips
And seizes my ankles
27 times I've been reminded that
These bones aren't going to hold me forever
And these feet will forget how to run
But I told myself they never found a need to
Instead simulating a universe
Where they had power
There's a cruel joke in there somewhere
That playing House as kids
Didn't include a guide on how
To reach that threshold in the first place.
Learning that hands were made to be used
And compromise was the cornerstone of love
I haven't really sat down to compose something that sounds coherent. Have some recent thought rambles from the last few months, instead.
You didn't know I saw you
Watching my train rumble away
A perfect stranger
Arms draped through the barred gate
When everyone behind you
Heaved lumber in indifference
I saw you curious
And I wonder if it lingered
When we disappeared
You see, every time an
Opportunity leaves me,
It leaves me violently
Like a bullet
And it scars,
Then I'm left with purple prose,
And bitterness over what
Might have been
Prepping for a move and stumbled across one of my newer old journals (Is that an oxymoron?)
And on these strings, I write a symphony of Eskimos,
Of the unknown.
I write a ballad of rhymes, almost-rhymes
And nonsensical *******.
I spill a little of my soul
Drop by drop
Into a song that no one will fully understand.
Not even I understand these things.
But they just seep out of me like sweat from a pore.