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Damon Robinson Mar 2020
Oh. My. God.

Where the hell have you been? You were hiding just inside the everyday normality of my story. When I first realized the waves you made on my shore I felt like I must learn how to play the piano just to replicate the pace my heart would get to every time I’m near you.

The comfort I get from being around you is like listening to music you never heard but adore the moment it comes on. You are like a song that everyone knows the words to. A modern-day Bohemian Rhapsody, a recapture of American Pie.

Not a long long time ago, I will never forget that your music would make me smile. Your words touch me deep inside, there won’t be a day this music dies. I know I don’t have a chevy but the levee’s not dry.

I struggle to grasp the concept of composure when the thought of you wakes me up in the morning. I drape my arm over my wishes of you being there. It’s not just love, it’s fantasy. Fantasy like the words lost in the winds between us, making me clutch the lyrics of a song that I want to sing for you.

I guess what I want to say is this, you are heard. I swear that the walls inch closer every time you speak just so they can listen to your voice more closely. The melody echoes off every surface, ever enchanting, promising me that if I stay silent I just might hear what beautiful sounds like.

Maybe I’ll never learn how to play the piano, I know that the keys to happiness are strung across the seemingly growing distance between possibility and reality. Because the fact of the matter is, I don't know how to play any instruments. But I promise that I will always dance to the music I hope you’ll play for me.
After falling out of a relationship, I found myself quickly developing feelings for people that I never knew I had feelings for. While it would never happen, the spark of creativity gave me the inspiration to write this piece. Much love. <3
Damon Robinson Feb 2020
I am a warrior.

tell me that I am not,
and you will have some fiercely chosen words hurled at you

you see
i have fought many a doubter,

kept at bay
without ever being a shouter.

but, I am a warrior,
i go to war every day.
fighting against the overarching flames
entangling me in its’ depth.
forcing me to pry its' grasp away from my throat
giving me just enough air to say 'good morning.'

'I’m fine.'
I don't talk about my emotions too much, but I've realized that I've been feeling a lot more anxious this past year. It's a shame it's still so hard to talk about.
Damon Robinson Nov 2019
Maybe it was the lighting,
But as you looked towards the rooms sky
I swore to you that the glistened dew stained
Your cheekbones, auburn.

It was the dimming glow that bothered mine.
I don’t know if was the environment,
Or the moon of currant, bleeding a signal that made
The mutts howl alongside you.

Your eyes, now faced with fears that knows
It can take over and plaster this town.
Fear subsiding into your crescent gaze
As you avoid looking at anyone.

I know you won’t hear me.
But I want to help you.
We all wonder if there was something we could have done.
Damon Robinson Nov 2019
It’s was very clear
The purring of the turbine kept us awake
As the dew settled into the drying shale
Becoming what it’s not

Perhaps the men, fantastic
Misconstrued across the dimming ceiling, being blown about
Reminding you of those who you wish for
Rather than the *******

To justify the means
Is to understanding the ******* as no more
Than the tap to which sap leaks from
For the one, insecured.
The ability to read the room is what truly opens your eyes to things, unsecured.
Damon Robinson Jun 2019
It’s hard to describe
But the ever wondering desire
That’s been rooted in the back catalogue
Of my heart has sprouted into
A life of its own.

There was no flash before the rumble
And the flames birthed by the remaining ember
From meeting you three years ago
Under a shoddy build wall painted star gaze
Surprised me.

I wonder what it feels like,
     To be unsuspecting,
And be labelled dangerous by
One who I only shared words with,
Unknowing of the flint plating crafted around them.

Perhaps it was expert craftsmanship,
But I was always decent at creating fire
Out of words laced with secondhand desire.
And while you can’t shape much out of it,
You can produce a flame.

Perhaps in a different life
Would one be able to see the shadows
Of two whisps playing in the dark,
And making fire out of the words
They shared amongst them.
I wrote this as part of my developing chapbook, "Tea and Existentialism". Heartworm is a word developed by John Koenig of "The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows."

Looking for some feedback! :)
Damon Robinson Feb 2019
I never told you that when I woke beside you, I woke up just to hold
You always told me that I lied about how your auburn eyes were
Beautiful describes the best parts of my dreams in which I kissed
You never believed me when I said that my love would forever be
Undying be the whisper, describing the thoughts of my adoration for
You never noticed how I made sure that the temperature was always
Perfect was the night when the forget-me-nots told me to say I love
You made me the happiest soul to exist when you said you loved me
Damon Robinson Feb 2019
You didn't deserve what you got
Because while others forgot
I remembered the girl with flowers
Ingrained in her hair of umber.

Nobody told me that one day you would disappear,
Not from death, but from birth as those who swore to their saviour,
Held you pinned to the dish as you soon found out
There are places where even god won't go.

I can't explain the broken pieces of my heart
Laid between you and I as I saw you, fragmented as well.
Gone was the girl who believed in the good of just being,
Tied to the father who now played the role as the cross.

People ask why religion is a sore spot for me.
Before I could raise myself to speak I remember what
The umber-haired atheist in the Prussian hoodie said in grade five:
"Sometimes life just freakin' *****."

It's been 10 years since I saw you, and you didn't move away.
I heard from a friend of a friend that you had a son now,
A son who also happened to be your brother.
Your son being your brother and your father being his.

My friend told me you said he was born in the name of god.
I just wish you were still just my friend named Claire.
The poem is about a girl I knew back in elementary school who vanished from my life without reason. It was a difficult memory I've kept hidden away, but sometimes you have to just admit something, even if it's not about you. Much love to those taking times out of their day to read my poem.

— The End —